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Vol. 10. No. 5r,«. Feb. i'H, .l,*>i5. Annual Siibscriptir^n. ^rojm. 



SCOTT'S 
POETICAL 
WORKS 



Entered at the Post Office, N. Y., as secon.i class-matt 
Copyright, lSt'4, by John W. Lovkli, Co. 



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THE 



Poetical Works 



OF 



/ 

SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. 



NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
14 AND 16 Vesey Street 



CONTENTS 



Page. 
The Lay op thb Last Minstrel.. .... 7 

RIarmion ' 43 

Thb Lady of the Lake 107 

The Vision of Don Roderick 161 

RoKKBV 177 

The Bridal of Triermain ; op, the 

Vale of St. John- , 230 

The Lord of the Isles 256 

The Field of Waterloo 304 

Harold the Dauntless 310 

Contributions to Minstrelsy of the 
Scottish Border .— 

Thomas the Rhymer 337 

Glenfinlas; or. Lord Ronald's Coronach 342 

The Eve o[ St. John 346 

Cadyow Castle 349 

The Gray Brother 352 

Ballads, Translated, or Imitated, 
FROM THE German, &C- : — 

"William and Helen.. , 355 

The Wild Huntsman 359 

The Fire-King 361 

Frederick and Alice o 364 

The Battle of Sempach 365 

The Noble Mormger , 368 

The Erl-King - 371 

MiCELLANEOUS PoEMS '. — 

Ju/enile Lines , 372 

On a thunder storm 373 

On the setting sun ^71 

The Violet.." 373 

To a Lady. With Flowers from a Ro- 
man Wall , 373 

War-Song of the Edinburgh Light Dra- 
goons 373 

The Bard's Incantation ,., 374 

Helvellyn 374 

The Dying Bard 375 

The Norman Horse-shoe..... ,. 376 

The Maid of Toro ,, 376 

The Palmer , , 377 

The Maid of Neidpath 377 

Wandering Willie 378 

Hunting Song 370 

Health to Lord Melville , 379 

Epitaph designed for a Monument in 

Lichfield Cathedral 380 

The Resolve 380 

Prologue to Miss Baillie's Play of the 

Family Legend 381 

The Poacher. jga 



Pag* 
Miscellaneous Poems, continued-— 

Song 384 

The Bold Dragoon 384 

On the Massacre of Glencoe 385 

For a' that an' a' that 386 

Song for the Anniversary Meeting of 

the Put Club of Scotland. .... 3-87 

Lines addressed to Ranald Macdonald, 

Esq ., of Staff a 387 

Pharos Loquitur 388 

Letter in Verse to the Duke of Buccleuch, 388 

From IVaverley : 

Bridal Song 390 

Davie Gellatley's Songs 391 

St. Swithin's Chair 392 

Flora Maclvor's Song 392 

To an Oak Tree 393 

Farewrell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail 394 

War-Song of Lachlan, High Chief of 

Maclean 394 

Saint Cloud 394 

The Dance of Death 395 

Romance of Dunois 397 

The Troubadour 397 

Song from the French 397 

Song on the Lifting of the Banner of the 

House of Buccleuch 398 

Lullaby of an Infant Chief.. 398 

From Guy Mannerins; : 

" Twist y.e, Twine ye " 399 

The Dying Gypsy's Dirge 399 

The Return to Ulster 399 

Jock of Hazeldean 400 

Pibroch of Donald Dhu 400 

Nora's Vow 401 

Macgregor's Gathering. , 401 

Verses to the Czar Alexander 402 

From ike A ntiquary : 

Time ,.... 402 

Elspeth's Ballad 403 

Mottoes 403 

Motto from the Black Dwarf. 403 

From Old Mortality : 

Major Bellenden's Song 405 

Verses found in Bothwell's Pocket-book. 406 

Mottoes 406 

The Search after Happiness 406 

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill 411 

The Monks of Bangor's March 412 

Mottoes from Rob Roy 41a 

Mr. Kemble's Farewell Address 413 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

A Poem of nearly thirty years' standing may be supposed hardly to need an Introduction, 
since, v^rithout one, it has been able to keep itself afloat through the best part of a generation. 
Nevertheless, as, in the edition of the WaverleyNovels now m course of publication, [1830,] I have 
imposed on myself the task of saying something concerning the purpose and history of each, in 
their turn, I am desirous that the Poems for which I first received some marks of the public 
favor, should also be accompanied with such scraps of their literary history as may be supposed 
to carry interest along with them. Even if 1 should be mistaken in thinking that the secret his* 
tory of what was once so popular, may still attract public attention and curiosity, it seems to me 
not without its use to record the manner and circumstances under which the present, and other 
Poems on the same plan, attained for a season an extensive reputation. 

I must resume the story of my literary labors at the period at which I broke off in the Essay 
on the Imitation of Popular Poetry, when I had enjoyed the first gleam of public favor, by the 
success of the first edition of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. The second edition of that 
work, published in 1803, proved, in the language of the trade, rather a heavy concern. The 
demand in Scotland had been supplied by the first edition, and the curiosity of the English was 
not much awakened by poems in the rude garb of antiquity, accompanied with notes referring to 
the obscure feuds of barbarous clans, of whose very names civilized history was ignorant. It 
was, on the whole, one of those books which are more praised than they are read. 

At this time I stood personally in a different position from that which I occupied when I first 
dipt my desperate pen in ink for other purposes than those of my profession. In 1796, when I 
first published the Translations from Burger, I was an insulated individual, with only my own 
wants to provide for, and having, in a great measure, my own inclinations alone to consult. In 
1803, when the second edition of the Minstrelsy appeared, I had arrived at a period of life when 
men, however thoughtless, encounter duties and circumstances which press consideration and 
plans of life upon the most careless minds. I had been for some time married — was the father of 
a rising family — and, though fully enabled to meet the consequent demands upon me, it was my 
duty and desire to place myself m a situation which would enable me to make honorable provi- 
sion against the various contingencies of life. 

It may be readily supposed that the attempts which I had made in literature had been un- 
favorable to my success at the Bar. The goddess Themis is, at Edinburgh, and I suppose 
everywhere else, of a peculiarly jealous disposition. She will not readily consent to share her 
authority, and sternly demands from her votaries, not only that real duty be carefully attended 
to and discharged, but that a certain air of business shall be observed even in the midst of total 
idleness. It is prudent, if not absolutely necessary, in a young barrister, to appear completely 
engrossed "by his profession ; however destitute of employment he may in reality be, he ought to 
preserve, if possible, the appearance of full occupation. He should, therefore, seern perpetually 
engaged among his law papers, dusting them, as it were ^ and, as Ovid advises the fair, 

" Si nullus erit pulvis, tamen excute nullum." 

Perhaps such extremity of attention is more especially required, considering the great number of 
counsellors who are called to the Bar, and how very small a proportion of them are finally disposed, 
or find encouragement, to follow the law as a profession. Hence the number of deserters is so 
great, that the least lingering look behind occasions a young novice to be set down as one of the 
nitending fugitives. Certain it is, that the Scottish Themis was at this time peculiarly jealous 
of any flirtation with the Muses, on the part of those who had ranged themselves under her 
banners. This was probably owing to her consciousness of the superior attractions of her rivals. 
Of late, however, she has relaxed in some instances in this particular — an eminent example of 
which has been shown in the case of my friend Mr. Jeflfrey, who, after long conducting one of 
the most influential literary periodicals of the age, with unquestionable ability, has been, by the 
general consent of his brethren, recently elected to be their Dean of Faculty, or President — being 
the highest acknowledgment of his professional talents which they had it in their power to offer. 
But this is an incident much beyond the ideas of a period of thirty years' distance, when a bar- 
rister who really possessed any turn for lighter literature, was at as much pains to conceal it 
as if it had in reality been something to be ashamed of ; and I could mention more than one in- 
stSiice in which literature and society have suffered much loss, that jurisprudence might be en- 

Such, however, was not my case ; for the reader will not wonder that my open mterference 
with matters of light literature diminished my employment in the weightier matters of the law. 
Nor did the solicitors, upon whose choice the counsel takes rank m his profession, do me 
less than justice, by regarding others among my contemporaries as fitter tp discharge theduty^dua 
tQ 'heir clients, than a young man who was taken up with running after ballads, whether Teu- 
t»* c or National. My profession and I, therefore, came to stand nearly upon the footing which 



THE LA V OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



honest Slender consoled himself on having established with Mistress Anne Page ; *' There was 
no great love between us at the beginning, and it pleased Heaven to decrease it on farther 
acquaintance." I became sensible that the time was come when I must either buckle myself 
resolutely; to the "toil by day, the lamp by night," renouncing all the Delilahs of my imagina- 
tiori, or bid adieu to the profession cf the law, and hold another course. 

.1 confess my own inclination revolted from the more severe choice, which might have been 
deemed by many the wiser alternative. As my transgressions had been numerous, my repent- 
ance must have been signaHzed by unusual sacrifices. I ought to have mentioned, that since 
my fourteenth or fifteenth year, my health, originally delicate, had become extremely robust. 
From infancy I had labored under the infirmity of a severe lameness, but, as 1 believe is usually 
the case with men of spirit who suffer under personal inconveniences of this nature, I had, 
since the improvement of my health, m defiance of this mcapacitating circumstance, distinguished 
myself by the endurance of toil on foot or horseback, having often walked thirty miles a-day, 
and rode upwards of a hundred, without resting. In this manner I made many pleasant jour- 
neys through parts of the country then not" very accessible, gaining more amusement and instruc- 
tion than I have been able to acquire since I have travelled in a more commodious manner. I 
practised most silvan sports also, with some success, and with great delight. But these pleas- 
ures must have been all resigned, or used with great moderation, had I determined to regain my 
station at the Bar. It was even doubtful whether I could, with perfect chaiact<;r as a juriscon- 
sult, retain a situation in a volunteer corps of ^avalry, which I then held. The threats of inva- 
sion were at this time instant and menacing, ; the call by Britain on her children was universal, 
and was answered by some, who, like myself, consulted rather their desire than their ability to 
bear arms. My services, however, were found useful in assisting to maintain the discipline of 
the corps, being the point on which their constitution rendered them most amenable to military 
criticism. In other respects, the squadron was a fine one, consisting chiefly of handsome men, 
well mounted and armed at their own expense. My attention to the corps took up a good deal 
of time ; and while it occupied many of the happiest hours of my life, it furnished an additional 
reason for my reluctance again to encounter the severe course of study indispensable to success 
in the juridical profession. 

On tjie other hand, my father, whose feelings might have been hurt by my quitting the Bar, 
had been for two or three years dead, so that I had no control to thwart my own inclination ; and 
my income being equal to all the. comforts, and some of the elegancies, of life, I was not pressed 
to an irksome labor by necessity, that most powerful of motives ; consequently, I was the more 
easily seduced to choose the employment which was most agreeable to me. This was yet the 
easier, that in 1800 I had obtained the preferment of SherifiE of Selkirkshire, about ;^3oo a-year 
in value, and which was the more agreeable to me, as in that county I had several friends and 
relations. But I did not abandon the profession to which I had been educated, without certain 
prudential re^lutions, which, at the risk of some egotism, I will here mention ; not without the 
nope that they may be useful to young persons who may stand in circumstances similar to those 
in which I then stood. 

In the first place, upon considering the lives and fortunes of persons who had given them- 
selves up to literature, or to the task of pleasing the public, it seemed to me, that the circum.- 
stances which chiefly affected their happiness and character, were those from which Horace has 
bestowed upon authors the epithet of the Irritable Race. It requires no depth of philosophic 
reflection to perceive, that the petty warfare of Pope with the Dunces of his period could not 
have been carried on without his suffering the most acute torture, such as a man must endure 
from mosquitoes, by whose stings he suffers agony, although he can crush them in his grasp by 
myriads. Nor is it necessary to call to memory the many humiliating instances in which men of 
the greatest genius have, to avenge some pitiful quarrel, made themselves ridiculous during their 
lives, to become the still more degraded objects of pity to future times. 

Upon the whole, as I had no pretension to the genius of the distinguished persons wlio had 
fallen into such errors, I concluded there could be no occasion for imitating them in their mis- 
takes, or what I considered as such ; and, in adoiJting literary pursuits as the principal occupa 
tion of my future life, I resolved, if possible, to avoid those weaknesses of temper which seemed 
to have most easily beset my more celebrated predecessors. 

With this view, it was my first resolution to keep as far as was in my power abreast of societf, 
continuing to maintain my place in general companj', without yielding to the very natural temp- 
tation of narrowing myself to what is called literary society. By doing so, I imagined I should 
escape t!ie besetting sin of listening to language, which, from one motive or other, is apt to 
ascribe a very undue degree of consequence to literary pursuits, as if they were, indeed, the busi- 
nes.5, rather than the amusement, of life. The opposite course can only be compared to the in- 
jadicioas conduct of one who pampers himself with cordial and luscious draughts, until he is un- 
able to endure wholesome bitters. Like Gil Bias, therefore, I resolved to stick by the society 
of my cotninis, instead of seeking that of a more literary cast, and to maintain my general 
interest m what was going on around me, reserving the man of letters for the desk and thi" 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



My second resolution was a corollary from the first. I determined that, without shutting my 
ears to the voice of true criticism, I would pay no regard to that which assumes the {on.a of 
satire. I therefore resolved to arm myself with that triple brass of Horace, of which thrse of 
my profession are seldom held deficient, against all the roving warfare of satire, parody, and 
sarcasm ; to laugh if the jest was a good one, or, if otherwise, to let it hum and buzz itself to 
sleep. 

It is to the observance of these rules (according to my best belief) that, after, a life of thirty 
years engaged in literary labors of various kinds, I attribute my never having been entanrled 
in any literary quarrel or controversy ; and, which is a still more pleasing result, that I have 
been distinguished by the personal friendship of my most approved contemporaries of all 
parties. 

I adopted, at the same time, another resolution, on which it may doubtless be remarked, that 
It was well for me that 1 had it in my power to do so, and that, therefore, it is a line of conduct 
which, depending upon accident, can be less generally applicable in other cases. Yet I fail not 
to record this part (;f my plan, convinced that, though it may not be in every one's power to 
adopt exactly the same resolution, he may nevertheless, by his own exertions, in some shape 
or other, attain the object on which it was founded, namely, to secure the means of subsistence 
without relying exclusively on literary talents. In this respect, I determined that literature 
should be my staff, but not my crutch, and that the profits of my literary labor, however con- 
venient otherwise, should not, if I could help it, become necessary to my ordinary expenses. 
With this purpose I resolved, if the interest of my friends could so far favor me, to retire upon 
any of the respectable offices of the law, in which persons of that profession are glad to take 
refuge, when they feel themselves, or are judged by others, incompetent to aspire to its higher 
honors. Upon such a post an autlior might hope to retreat, without any perceptible alteration 
of circumstances, whenever the time should arrive that the public grew weary of his endeavors 
to please, or he himself should tire of the pen. At this period of my life, I possessed so many 
tnends capable of assisting me in this object of ambition, that I G£>uid hardly overrate rny own 
prospects of obtaining the preferment to which I limited my wishes ; and, in fact, I obtained in 
no long period the reversion of a situation which completely met them. 

Thus far all was well, and the author had been guilty, perhaps, of no great imprudence, when 
he relinquished his forensic practice with the hope of making some figure in the field of literature. 
But an established character with the public, in my new capacity, still remained to be acquired. 
I have noticed, that the translations from Burger had been unsuccessful, nor had the original 
poetry which appeared under the auspices of Mr. Lewis, in the " Tales of Wonder," in any 
^eat degree raised my reputation. It is true, 1 had private friends disposed to second me in 
my efforts to obtain popularity. But I was sportsman enough to know, that if the greyhound 
does not run well, the halioos of his patrons will obtain nothing for him. 

Neither was I ignorant that the practice cf ballad-writing was for the present oftt of fashion, 
and that any attempt to revive it, or to found a poetical character upon it, would certainly fail 
of success. The ballad measure itself, which was once listened to as to an enchanting melody, had 
become hackneyed and sickening, from its being the accompaniment of every grinding hand- 
organ ; and besides, a long work in quatrains, whether those of the common ballad, or such as 
are termed elegiac, has an effect upon the mind like that of tlie bed of Procrustes upon the human 
body ; for, as it must be both awkward and difficult to carry on a long sentence from one stanza 
to another, it follows, that the meaning of each period must be comprehended within four lines, 
and equally so that it must be extended so as to fill that space. The alternate dilation and con- 
traction thus rendered necessary is singularly unfavorable to narrative composition ; and the 
*' Gondibert " of Sir William D'Avenant, though containing many striking passages, has never 
become popular, owing chiefly to its being toid in this species of elegiac verse. _ • 

In the dilemma occasioned by this objection, the idea occurred to tiie author of using th 
measured short line, which forms the structure of so much minstrel poetry, that it may be prop 
jrly termed the Romantic stanza, by way of distinction ; and which appears so natural to ou 
language, that the very best of our poets have not been able to protract it into the verse properly 
called Heroic, without the use of epithets which are, to say the least, unnecessary. But, on the 
ether hand, the extreme facility of the short couplet, which seems congenial to our langua.';e. 
and was, doubtless for that reason, so popular with our old minstrels, is. fot the same rea'^on, 
»pt to prove a snare to the composer who uses it in mure modern days, by encouraging him in a 
habit of slovenly composition. The necessity of occasional pauses often forces the young poet 
to pay more attention to sense, as the boy's kite rises highest wiien the train is loaded by a due 
counterpoise. The author was therefore intimidated by what Byron calls the " fatal facility " of 
the octo-syllabic verse, which was otherwise better adapted to his purpose of imitating the more 
ancient poetry. 

1 was not less at a loss for a subject which might admit of being treated with the simplicity 
and wildness of the ancient ballad. But .iccident dictated both a theme and measure, which 
pecided the subject, as well as the structure cf the poem. 

The lovely young Countess of Da'kcrtli.aflerw.uus Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch, had come 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



to the land of her husband with the desire of making herself acquainted with its traditions and 
customs, as well as its manners and liistory. All who remember this lady will agree, that the 
intellectual character of her extrcm'- beauty, the amenity and courtesy of her manners, the 
soundness of her understanding, and h.er unbounded benevo'.ence, gave more the idea of an an- 
gelic visitant, than of a being belonging to this nether world ; and such a thought was but too 
consistent with the short space she was permitted to tarry among us. Of course, where all made 
it a pride and pleasure to gratify her wishes, she soon heard enough of Border lore ; among 
others, an aged gentleman of property,* near Langholm, communicated to her ladyship the 
story of Gilpin Horner, a tradition in which the narrator, and many more of that country, "were 
firm believers. The young Countess, much delighted with the legend, and the gravity and full 
confidence with which it was told, enjoined on me as a task to compose a ballad on the subject 
Of course, to hear was to obey ; and thus the goblin story, objected to by several critics as aa 
excrescence upon the poem, was, in fact, the occasion of its being written. 

A chance similar to that which dictated the subject, gave me also the hint of a new mode of 
treating it. We had at that time the lease of a pleasant cottage, near Lasswade, on the roman- 
tic banks of the Esk, to which we escaped when the vacations of the Court permitted me so 
much leisure. Here I had the pleasure to receive a visit from Mr. Stoddart, (now Sir John 
Stoddart, Judge-Advocate at Malta,) who was at that time collecting the particulars which he 
afterwards embodied in his Remarks on Local Scenery in Scotland. I was of some use to him 
ui procuring the information which he desired, and guiding him to the scenes which he wished 
to see. In return, he made me better acquainted than I had hitherto been with the poetic 
effusions which have since made the lakes of Westmoreland, and the authors by whom they 
have been sung, so famous wherever the English tongue is spoken. 

I was already acquainted with the "Joan of Arc," the "Thalaba," and the " Metrical Bal- 
lads" of Mr. Southey, which had found their way to Scotland, and were generally admired. 
But Mr. Stoddart, who had the advantage of personal friendship with the authors, and who 
possessed a strong memory, with an excellent taste, was able to repeat to me many long speci- 
mens of their poetry, which had not yet appeared in print. Amongst others, was the striking 
fragment called Christabel, by Mr. Coleridge, which, from the singularly irregular structure o' 
the stanzas, and the liberty which it allovvfed the author to adapt the sound to the sense, seemea 
to be exactly suited to such an extravaganza as I meditated on the subject of Gilpin Horner. 
As applied to comic and humorous poetry, this mescolanza of measures had been already used 
by Anthony Hall, Anstey, Dr. Wolcott, and others ; but it was in Christabel that 1 first found 
it used in serious poetry, and it is to Mr. Coleridge that I am bound to make the acknowledg- 
ment due from the pupil to his master. I observe that Lord Byron, in noticing my obligations 
to Mr. Coleridge, which I have been always most ready to acknowledge, expressed, or was 
understood to express, a hope that I did not write an unfriendly review on Mr. Coleridge's pro- 
ductions. On this subject I have only to say, that I do not even know the review which is 
alluded to ; and were I ever to take the unbecoming freedom of censuring a man of Mr. Colj 
ridge's extraordinary talents, it would be on account of the caprice and indolence with which h 
has thrown from him, as if in mere wantonness, those unfinished scraps of poetry, which, likt 
the Torso of antiquity, defy the skill of his poetical brethren to complete them. Tl>e charming 
fragments which the author abandons to their fate, are surely too valuable to be treated like the 
proofs of careless engravers, the sweepings of whose studios often make the fortune of some 
painstaking collector. 

I did not immediately proceed upon my projected labor, though I was now furnished with a 
subject, and with a structure of verse which might have the effect of novelty to the public ear, 
and afford the author an opportunity of varying his measure with the variations of a roman- 
tic theme. On the contrary, it was, to the best of my recollection,^ more than a year after Mr. 
Stoddart's visit, that, by way of experiment, I composed the first two or three stanzas of " The 
Lay of the Last Minstrel." I was shortly afterwards visited by two intimate friends, one of 
vvhom still survives. They were men whose talents might have raised them to the highest sta- 
tion in literature, had they not preferred exerting them in their own profession of the law, in 
which they attained equal preferment. I was in the habit of consulting them on my attempts at 
composition, having equal confidence in their sound taste and friendly sincerity.! In this speci- 

• This was Mr. Beattie of Mickledale, a man then considerably upwards of eighty, of a 
shrewd and sarcastic temper, which he did not at all times suppress, as the following anecdote 
will show :--A worthy clergyman, now deceased, writh better good-will than tact, was endeavor- 
ing to push the senior forward in his recollection of Border ballads and legends, by expressing 
reiterated surprise at his wonderful memory. " No, sir," said old Mickledale ; " my memory is 
good for little, for it cannot retain what ought to be preserved. I can remember all these sto^ 
ries about the auld riding days, which are of no earthly importance ; but were you, reverend sir, 
to repeat your best sermon in this drawing-room, I could not tell you half an hour afterwards 
what you had been speaking about." 

t One of these, William Erskine, Esq., (Lord Kinnedder,) I have often had occasion t« 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



men I had, in the phrase of the Highland servant, packed all that was my own at leasts ior I 
had also included a line of invocation, a little softened, from Coleridge — 

*' Mary, mother, shield us well.'* 

As neither of my friends said much to me on the subject of the stanzas I showed them before 
tiieir departure, I had no doubt that their disgust had been greater than their good-nature chose 
to express. Looking upon them, therefore, as a failure, 1 threw the manuscript into the fiia, 
snd thought as little more as I could of the matter. Some time afterwards I met one of my two 
counsellors, who inquired, with considerable appearance of interest, about the progress of the 
romance I had commenced, and was greatly surprised at learning its fate. He confessed that 
neither he nor our mutual friend had been at first able to give a precise opinion on a poem so 
much out of the common road ; but that as they walked home together to th". city, they had 
talked much on the subject, and the result was an earnest desire that I would proceed with the 
composition. He also added, that some sort of prologue might be necessary, to place the mind 
of the hearers in the situation to understand and enjoy tlie poem, and recommended the adop- 
tion of such quaint mottoes as Spenser has used to announce the contents of the chapters of the 
Faery Queen, such as — 

*' Babe's bloody hands may not be cleansed. 
The face of golden Mean : 
Her sisters two, Extremities, 
Strive her to banish clean.'* 

1 entirely agrsed with my friendly critic in the necessity of having some sort of pitch-pipe which 
might make readers aware of the object, or rather the tone, of the publication. But I doubted 
whether, in assuming the oracular style of Spenser's mottoes, the interpreter might not be 
censured as the harder to be understood of the two. I therefore introduced the Old Minstrel, 
as an appropriate prolocutor, by whom the Lay might be sung or spoken, and the introduction 
of whom betwixt the cantos might remind the reader, at intervals, of the time, place, and circum. 
stances of the recitation. The species of cadre., or frame, afterwards afforded the poem its name 
of " The Lay of the Last Minstrel." 

The work was subsequently shown to other friends during its progress, and received the rV«- 
primaiur of Mr. Francis Jeffrey, who had been already for some time distinguished by his 
critical talent. 

The poem, being once licensed by the critics as fit for the market, was soon finished, proceed- 
ing at about the rate of a canto per week. There was, indeed, little occasion for pause or hesita- 
tion, when a troublesome rhyme might be accommodated by an alteration of the stanza, or where 
an incorrect measure might be remedied by a variation of the rhyme. It was finally published in 
1805, and may be regarded as the first work in which the writer, who has been since so volumi- 
nous, laid his claim to be considered as an original author. 

The book was published by Longman and Company, and Archibald Constable and Company. 
The principal of the latter firm was then commencing that course of bold and liberal industry 
which was of so much advantage to his country, and might have been so to himself, but for 
causes which it is needless to enter into here. The work, brought out on the usual terms of 
division of profits between the author and publishers, was not long after purchased by them for 
;^5oo, to which Messrs. Longman and Company afterwards added ;^ioo, in their own unsolicited 
kindness, in consequence of the uncommon success of the work. It was handsomely given to 
supply the loss of a fine horse, which broke down suddenly while the author was riding with one 
of the worthy publishers. 

It would be great affectation not to own frankly, that the author expected some success from 
*'The Lay of the Last Minstrel." The attempt to return to a more simple and natural style of 
poetry was likely to be welcomed, at a time when the public had become tired of heroic hexame- 
ters, with all the buckram and binding which belong to them of later days. But whatever might 
have been his expectations, whether moderate or unreasonable, the result left them far behind, 
for among those who smiled on the adventurous Minstrel, were numbered the great names of 
William Pitt and Charles Fox. Neither was the extent of the sale inferior to .he character of 
the judges who received the poem with approbation. Upwards of thirty thousand copies of the 
Lay were disposed of by the trade ; and the author had to perform a task difficult to human 
vanity, when called upon to make the necessary deductions from his own merits, in a calm 
attempt to account for his popularity. 

A few additional remarks on the author's literary attempts after this period, will be found in 
the introduction to the Poem of Marmion. 
Abbotsford, A/ril, 1850. 

mention, and though I may hardly be thanked for discl»eing the name of the other, yet I cannot 
but state that the second is George Cransloun, Esq., uow a Senator of the CoIle?;e of Justice, 
by the title of I^ord Cofehouse. 1831. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



INTRODUCTION. 

The way was long, the wind was cold, 

The Minstrel was infirm and old ; 

His withered cheek, and tresses gray, 

Seem'd to have known a better day ; 

The harp, his sole remaining joy, 

Was carried by an orphan boy. 

The last of all the Bards was he, 

Who sung of Border chivalry. 

For, welladay ! their date was fled, 

His tuneful brethren all were dead ; 

And he, neglected and oppress'd, 

Wish'd to be with them, and at rest. 

No more on prancing palfrey borne, 

He caroll'd, light as lark at morn ; 

No longer courted and caress'd, 

High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 

He pour'd, to lord and lady gay, 

The unpremeditated lay : 

Old times were changed, old manners gone ; 

A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ; 

The bigots of the iron time 

Had call'd his harmless art a crime. 

A wandering Harper, scorn'd and poor, 

He begg'd his bread from door to door. 

And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 

The harp, a king had loved to hear. 

He pass'd where Newark's* stately 
tower 
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower : 
The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — 
No humbler resting-place was nigh, 
With hesitating step at last. 
The embattled portal arch he pass'd, 
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war, 
But never closed the iron door 
Against the desolate and poor. 



* Newark's stately toiver. A ruined tower 
flow ; situated three miles from Selkirk, on the 
banks of the Yarrow. 



The Duchess t mark'd his weary pac* 
His timid mien, and reverend face. 
And bade her page the menials tell. 
That they should tend the old man well : 
For she had known adversity. 
Though born in such a high degree ; 
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, 
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb ! 

When kindness had his wants supplied, 
And the old man was gratified, 
Began to rise his minstrel pride ; 
And he began to talk anon. 
Of good Earl Francis,]: dead and gone, 
And of Earl Walter,§ rest him, Godl 
A braver ne'er to battle rode ; 
And how full many a tale he knew, 
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch : 
And, would the noble Duchess deign 
To listen to an old man's strain, 
Though stiff his hand, his voice though 

weak. 
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, 
That, if she loved the harp to hear, 
He could make music to her ear. 

The humble boon was soon obtain'd; 
The aged Minstrel audience gain'd. 
But, when he reach'd the room of state, 
Where she, with all her ladies, sate. 
Perchance he wished his boon denied : 
For, when to tune his harp he tried, 
His trembling hand had lost the ease, 
Which marks security to please ; 
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, 
Came wildering o'er his aged brain — 
He tried to tune his harp in vain ! 

t T/ie Duchess. Anne, the heiress of Buc- 
cleuch, wlio had been married to the unhappy 
Duke of Monmouth, son of Charles II. He was 
beheaded for rebeUion against James II. 1685. 

X Earl Francis. The Duchess's late father. 

§ Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather ol 
the Duchess, and a celebrated warrior. 
(7) 



8 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



The pitying Duchess praised its chime, 

And gave him heart, and gave him time, 

Till every string's according glee 

Was blended into harmony. 

And then, he said, he would full fain 

He could recall an ancient strain, 

He never thought to sing again. 

It was not framed for village churls, 

But for high dames and mighty earls ; 

He had play'd it to King Charles the Good, 

When he kept court in Holyrood ; 

And much he wisli'd, yet fear'd to try 

The long-forgotten melody. 

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, 

And an uncertain warbling made. 

And oft he shook his lioary head. 

But when he caught the measure wild, 

The old man raised his face, and smiled ; 

And lighten'd up his faded eye, 

With all a poet's ecstasy 1 

In varying cadence, soft or strong. 

He swept the sounding chords along *, 

The present scene, the future lot, 

His toils, his wants, were all forgot : 

Cold diffidence, and age's frost, 

In the full tide of song were lost ; 

Each blank in faithless memory void. 

The poet's glowing thought supplied ; 

And, while his harp responsive rung, 

'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel suns. 



CANTO FIRST. 



The feast was over in Branksome tower,^ 
And the Ladye had gone to her secret 

bower ; 
Her bower that was guarded by word and 

by spell, 
Deadly to hear, and deadly to tel\ — 
Tesu Maria, shield us well ! 
No living wight, save the Ladye alone. 
Had dared to cross the threshold stone. 



The tables were drawn, it was idlesss all ; 

Knight, and page, and household squire, 
Loiter'd through the lofty hall. 

Or crowded round the ample fire : 
The staghounds, weary with the chase, 

Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor, 
And urged, in dreams, the forest race. 

From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor. 



III. 
Nine-and-twenty knights of fame 

Hung their shields in Branksome-Hall ;^ 
Nine-and-twenty squires of name 

Brought them their steeds to bower from 
stall ; 
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall 
Waited, duteous, on them all ; 
They were all knights of mettle true. 
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. 

IV. 

Ten of them were sheathed in steel, 
With belted sword, and spur on heel : 
They quitted not their harness bright, 
Neither jy day, nor yet by night ; 

They lay down to rest, 

With corselet laced, 
Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard ; 

They carved at the meal 

With gloves of steel, 
And they drank the red wine through the 
helmet barr'd. 

V. 

Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, 
Waited the beck of the warders ten ; 
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight. 
Stood saddled in stable day and night, 
Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow, 
And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow ; 3 
A hundred more fed free in stall : — 
Such was the custom of Branksome-Hall. 

VT, 

Why do these steeds stand ready dight ? 

Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by 
night?— 

They watch, to hear the blood-hound bay- 
ing; 

They watch to hear the war-horn braying ; 

To see St. George's red cross streaming. 

To see the midnight beacon gleaming : 

They watch, against Southern force and 
guile. 
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's 

powers, 
Threaten Dranksome's lordly towers. 

From Warkwork, or Naworth, or merry 
Carlisle.4 

VII, 

Such is the custom of Branksome-Hall— 

Many a valiant knight is here ; 
But he, the chieftain of them all, 
His sword hangs rusting on the wall. 
Beside his broken spear. 



THE LA V OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



Bards long shall tell 
How Lord Vvalter fell ! s 
When startled burr!;hcrs fled, afar, 
The furies of the Border war ; 
When the streets of high Dunedin * 
Saw lances gleam and falchions redden, 
And heard the slogan's f deadly yell — 
Then the Chief of Branksome fell. 



Can piety the discord heal, 

Or stanch the death-feud's enmity? 
Can Christian lore,- can patriot zeal, 

Can love of blessed charity? 
No ! vainly to each holy shrine, 

In mutual pilgrimage they drew ; 
Implored, in vain, the grace divine 

For chiefs, their own red falcliions slew ; 
While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, 

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, 
The slaughter' d chiefs, the mortal jar, 
The havoc of the feudal war, 

Shall never, never be forgot ! ^ 

IX. 

In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier 

The warlike foresters had bent ; 
And many a flower, and many a tear, 

Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent : 
But o'er her warrior's bloody bier 
The Ladye dropp'd no'- flower nor tear ! 
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, 

Had lock'd the source of softer woe ; 
And burning pride, and high disdain, 

Forb; .de the rising tear to flow ; 
Until, amid his sorrowing clan. 

Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee— 
*' And if I live to be a man, 

My father's death revenged shall be ! " 
Then fast the m.other's tears did seek 
To dew the infant's kindling cheek. 



All loose her golden hair, 
Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, 

And wept in wild despair : 
But not alone the bitter tear 

Had filial grief supplied ; 
For hopeless love, and anxious fear, 

Had lent their mingled tide ; 
Nor in her mother's alter'd eye 
Dared she to look for sympathy. 



* Edinburgh. 

t Tlie war-cry, or gathering word, of 
Border clan 



Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan. 

With Carr in arms had stood,^ 
When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran, 

All purple with their blood ; 
And well she knew, her mother dread, 
Before Ldrd Cranstoun ^ she should wed, 
Would see her on her dying bed. 



Of noble race the Ladye came. 
Her father was a clerk of fame. 

Of Bethune's line of Picardie : 9 
He learn'd the art that none may name, 

In Padua, far beyond the sea. '° 
Men said, he changed his mortal frame 

By feat of magic mystery ; 
For when^in studious mode, he pa«ed 

St. Andrew's cloister'd hall, 
His form no darkening shadow traced 

Upon the sunny wall 1 ^^ 

XII. 
And of his skill, as bards avow, 

He taught that Ladye fair. 
Till to her bidding she could bow 

The viewless forms of air. 
And now she sits in secret bower, 
In old Lord David's western tower, 
And listens to a heavy sound, 
That moans the mossy turrets round. 
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide. 
That chafes against the scaur's } red side f 
Is it the wind that swings the oaks ? 
Is it the echo from the rocks ? 
What may it be, the heavy sound. 
That moans old Branksome's turrets 
round ? 



At the sullen, moaning sound, 

The ban-dogs bay and howl ; 
And, from the turrets rousd, 

Loud whoops the startled owl. 
In the hall, both squire and knight 

Swore that a storm was near, 
And looked forth to view the night? 

But the night was still and ';lear | 

XIV. 

From the sound of Teviot's tide, 
Chafing with the mountain's side. 
From the groan of the wind-swung oak, 
From the sullen echo of the rock, 
From the voice of the coming storm, 
The Ladve knew it well ! 



% A steep embankmentt 



30 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKSX 



Jt -was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke, 
And he call'd on the Spirit of the Fell. 
XV. 
RIVER SPIRIT. 

« Sleep'st thou, brother ! "— 

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. 

— "Brother, nay — 
On my hills the moon-beams play. 
From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen, 
By every rill, in every glen, 

Merry elves their morris pacing, 

To aerial minstrelsy. 
Emerald rin^s on brown heath tracing, 

Trip it deft and merrily. 
Up, and mark their nimble feet ! 
Up, and list their music sweet I '' — 
XVI. 
RIVER SPIRIT. 

^ Tears of an imprison'd maiden 

Mix with my polluted stream ; 
Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, 

Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. 
Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars, 
When shall cease these feudal jars ? 
What shall be the maiden's fate ? 
Who shall be the maiden's mate?" 

XVII, 
MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. 

" Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll, 

In utter darkness round the pole ; 

The Northern Bear lowers black and grim ; 

Orion's studded belt is dim ; 

Twinkling faint, and distant far. 

Shimmers through mist each planet star ; 

111 may I read their high decree ! 
But no kind influence deign they shower 
On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower, 

Till pride be quell'd, and love be free." 

XVIII, 

The unearthly voices ceast, 

And the heavy sound was still ; 
It died on the river's breast, 

]t died on the side of the hill. 
But round Lord David's tower 

The sound still floated near ; 
For it rung m the Ladye's bower. 

And it rung.m the Ladye's ear. 
She raised her stately head. 

And her heart throbb'd high with 
pride : — 
* Your mountains shall bend, 

And your streams ascend. 
Ere rdargarct be our foeman's bride 1 " 



XIX. 

The Ladyc sought the lofty hall, 

Where many a bold retainer lay, 
And, with jocund din, among them all, 

Her son pursued his infant play 
A fancied moss-trooper,* the boy 

The truncheon of a spear bestrode. 
And round the hall, right merril}'-. 

In mimic foray rode. 
Even bearded knights, in arms grown old. 

Share in his frolic gambols bore. 
Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould. 

Were stubborn as the steel they wore. 
For the gray warriors prophesied 

How the brave boy, in future war. 
Should tame the Unicorn's pride,t 

Exalt the Crescent and the Star. J ' 

XX. 

The Ladye forgot her purpose high. 

One moment, and no more ; 
One moment gazed with a mother's eye. 

As she paused at the arched door : 
Then from amid the armed train, 

She call'd to her William of Deloraine. 
XXI. 

A stark moss-trooping Scott was he. 
As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee ; 
Through Solway sands, through Tarra* 

moss. 
Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross ; 
By wily turns, by desperate bounds. 
Had bafiied Percy's best blood-hounds ; "- 
In Eske or Liddel, fords were none. 
But he would ride them, one by one ; 
Alike to him was time or tide, 
December's snow, or July's pride; 
Alike to him was tide or time. 
Moonless midnight, or matin prime ; 
Steady of heart, and stout of hand, 
As ever drove prey from Cumberland ; 
Five times outlaw'd had he been. 
By England's King, and Scotland's Queen 

XXII. 

" Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, 
Mount thee on the wisjhtest steed ; 



* Moss-trooper, a borderer, whose profession 
was pillage of the English. These marauders 
were called moss-troopers because they dwell 
in tiie mosses, and rode, on their incursions, iu 
troops. 

t The Unicom Head was the crest cf the 
Carrs, or Kerrs, of Cessford, the enemies of 
the cliild's late father. 

X The Crescent and the Star were armoria) 
bearings of the Scotts of Buccleuch, 



THE LA V OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



li 



Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride, 
Until thou come to fair Tweedsicle ; 
And in Melrose's holy pile 
Seek thou the monk of St. Mary's aisle. 
Greet the Father well from me ; 

Say that the fated hour is come, 
And to-night he shall watch with thee, 

To win the treasure of the tomb ; 
For this will be St. Michael's night, 
And, though the stars be dim, the moon is 

bright ; 
And the Cross, of bloody red. 
Will point to the grave of the mighty dead. 

XXIII. 

" What he gives thee, see thou keep ; 

Stay not thou for food or sleep ; 

Be it scroll, or be it book, 

Into it, Knight, thou must not look ; 

If thou readest, thou art lorn ! 

Better hadstthou ne'er been born." — 

XXIV. 

" O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, 

Which drini<s of the Teviot clear; 
Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say, 

*' Again will I be here : 
And safer by none may thy errand be done. 

Than, noble dame, by me ; 
Letter nor line know I never a one, 

Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee." * 



Soon in his saddle sate he fast, 
And soon the steep descent he past. 
Soon cross' d the sounding barbican,! 
And soon the Teviot side he won. 
Eastward the wooded path he rode. 
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod ; 
He pass'd the Peel of Goldiland,]: 
And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand 
Dinaly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound, 
Where Druid shades still flitted round ; 
.In Hawick twinkled many a light ; 
Behind him soon they set in night; 



* Hairibee, tlie place on Carlisle wall where 
the moss-troopers, if caught, were hung. The 
neck-verse -vy-as the first verse of Psalm 51. If 
a criminal claimed on the scaffold " benefit of 
tiis clergy," a priest instantly presented him 
with a- Psalter, and he read his neck-verse. 
The power of reading it entitled him to his life, 
which was spared ; but he was banished the 
kirigdom. See Palgrave's " Merchant and 
Friar." 

t Barbican, the defence of the outer gate of 
« feudal castle. 

t Peel, a Border tovr'er. 



And soon he spurr'd his courser keen 
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. 

XXVI. 

The clattering hoofs the v/atchmen mark ;-=' 
" Stand, ho ! thou courier of the dark.'' — 
" For Branksome, ho ! " the knight rejoin'd. 
And left the friendly tt)wer behind. 

He turn'd him now from Teviotside, 
And, guided by the tinkling rill, 

Northward the dark ascent did ride, 
And gaih'd the moor at Horsliehill ; 
Broad on the left before him lay. 
For many a mile, the Roman way.§ 

XXVII. 

A moment now he slack'd his speed, 
A moment breathed his panting steed ; 
Drew saddle-girth and corslet hvao, 
And loosen'd in the sheath his braiid. 
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint, 
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint ; 
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest, 
Where falcons hang their giddy nest, 
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye 
For many a league his prey could spy; 
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne, 
The terrors of the robbep's horn ; 
Cliffs, which, for many a later year. 
The warbling Doric reed shall hear, 
When some sad swain shall teach the grove^ 
Ambition is no cure for love ! 

XXVIII. 

Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, 
To ancient Riddel's fair domain, 

Where Aill, from mountains freed, 
Down from the lakes did raving con-ke ; 
Each wave was crested with tawny foam, 

Like the mane of a chestnut steed. 
In vain ! no torrent, deep or broad. 
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. 

XXIX. 

At the first plunge the horse sunk low. 
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow; 
Above the foaming tide, 1 ween. 
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen ; 
_ For he was barded || from counter to tafl, 
i And the rider was armed complete in mail ; 
I Never heavier man and horse 
Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. 

i ~~ ~~~~ 

I § An ancient Roman road, crossing through 

Ipart of Roxburghshire. 
II Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse ac- 
coutred with defensive armor. 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The warriors very plume, I say, 

Was draggled by the dashing spray : 

Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's 

grace, 
At length lie gain'd the landing-place. 



Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, 

And sternly shook his plumed head, 
As glanced his eye o'er Halidon ; *' 
For on his soul the slaughter red 
Of that unhallow'd morn arose, 
When first the Scott and Carr were foes 
When royal James beheld the fray, 
Prize to the victor of the day ; 
** When Home and Douglas, in the van, 
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, 
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear 
Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear. 



In bitter mood he spurred fast, 
And soon the hated heath was past ; 
And far beneath, in lustre wan. 
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran : 
Like some tall rock with lichens gray, 
Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye. 
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung. 
Now midnight lauds f were in Melrose 

sung. 
The sound, upon the fitful gale, 
In solemn wise did rise and fail. 
Like that wild harp, whose magic tone 
Is waken 'd by the winds alone. 
But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence 

all ; 
He meetly stabled his steed in stall, 
And sought the convent's lonely wall. ^^ 



Here paused the harp ; and with its swell 
The Master's fire and courage fell ; 
Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd. 
And, gazing timid on the crowd, 
He seem'd to seek, in every eye, 
If they approved his minstrelsy ; 
And, diffident of present praise. 
Somewhat he spoke of former days, 
And how old age, and wand'ring long, 
Had done his hand and harp some wrong. 
The Duchess, and her daughters fair, 
And every gentle lady there, 



^ Halidon was an ancient seat of tlie Kerrs 
of Ccssford, now demolislied. 

t Lauds, the midnight service of riie Cathrlic 
r^urch. 



Each after each, in due degree, 
Gave praises to his melody ; 
His hand was true, his voice was clear, 
And much they long'd the rest to hear. 
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man, 
After meet rest, again began. 



CANTO SECOND. 



If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, 

Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 

For the gay beams of lightsome da}^ 

Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 

When the broken arches are black in night. 

And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; 

When the cold light's uncertain .shower 

Streams on the ruin'd central tower ; 

When buttress and buttress, alternately, 

Seem fr'xmed of ebon and ivory ; 

When silver edges the imagery. 

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and 

die ; ^^ 
When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's 

grave. 
Then go — but go alone the while — 
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ; 
And, home returning, soothly swear, 
Was never scene so sad and fair 1 



Short halt did Deloraine make there ; 
Little reek'd he of the scene so fair ; 
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong, 
He struck full loud, and struck full long. 
The porter hurried to the gate — 
" Who knocks so loud, and knocks so 

late?" 
" From Branksome I,'' the warrior cried; 
And straight the v.-icket open'd wide : 
For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood^ 

To fence the rights of fair Melrose ; 
And lands and livings, many a rood, 

Had gifted the shrine for their souls* 

repose. 

III. 
Bold Deloraine his errand said ; 
The porter bent his humble head ; 
With torch in hand, and feet unshod, 
And noiseless step, the path he trod, 
The arched cloister, far and wide, 
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride. 
Till, stooping low his lofty crest, 
He enter' d the cell of the ancient priest. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



n 



And lifted his barred aventayle,* 
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. 



" The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by 
me, 

Says, that the fated hour is come, 
And that to-night I shall watch with thee, 

To win the treasure of the tomb." 
From sackcloth couch the Monk arose. 

With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd ; 
A hundred years had flung their snows 

On his thin locks and floating beard. 

V. 

And strangely on the Knight look'd he. 

And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide ; 
"And, darest thou, Warrior ! seek to see 

What heaven and hell ahke would hide ? 
My breast, in belt of iron pent, 

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn ; 
For threescore years, in penance spent. 

My knees those flinty stones have worn : 
Yet all too little to atone 
For knowing what should ne'er be knov/n. 

Would'st thou thy every future year 
In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, 

Yet wait thy latter end with fear — 
Then, daring Warrior, follow me ! " — 



" Penance, father, will I none ; 
Prayer know I hardly one ; 
For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, 
Save to patter an Ave Mary, 
When I ride on a Border foray. 
Other prayer can I none ; 
So speed me my errand, and let me be 
gone." — 



Again on the Knight looked the Churchman 

old. 
And again he sighed heavily ; 
For he had himself been a warrior bold, 

And fought in Spain and Italy. 
And he thought on the days that were long 

since by, 
When his limbs were strong, and his courage 

was high :— 
Now, slow and faint, he led the way, 
Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay ; 
The pillar'd arches were over their head, 
And beneath their feet were the bones of the 

dead. 



* Aventayle, visor of the helmet. 



vi:i. 

Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright, 
Glisten'd with the dew of night ; 
Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there, 
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. 
The monk gazed long on the lovely 
moon. 
Then into the night he looked forth ; 
And red and bright the streamers lighi 

Were dancing in the glowing north. 
So had he seen, in fair Castille, 

The youth in glittering squadrons 
start ; 
Sudden the flying jennet wheel. 
And hurl the unexpected dart. 
He knew, by the streamers that shot 

bright. 
That spirits were riding the northern ligh». 



By a steel-clenched postern door, 

They enter'd now the chancel tall ; 
The darken' d roof rose high aloof 

On pillars lofty and light and small : 
The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed 

aisle, 
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ; 
The corbells were carved grotesque and 

grim ; 
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so 

trim, 
With base and with capital flourish'd 

around, 
Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands 

had bound. 



Full many a scutcheon and banner riven, 
Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, 

Around the screened altar's pale ; 
And there the dying lamps did burn. 
Before thy low and lonely urn, 
O gallant Chief of Otterburne ! 15 

And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale ! l« 
O fadmg honors of the dead ! 
O high ambition, lowly laid ! 



The moon on the east oriel shone 
Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 

By foliaged tracery combined ; 
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's 

hand 
'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand, 

In many a freakish knot, had twined ; 



H 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Then framed a spell, when the work was 

done, 
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone. ( 
The silver light, so pale and faint, 
Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint, 

Whose image on the glass was dyed ; 
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red 
Triumphant Michael brandished, 

And trampled the Apostate's pride. 
The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane. 
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 



They sate them down on a marble stone, 

(A Scottish monarch slept below ;)* 
Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone: — 

" I was not always a man of woe ; 
For Paynim countries I have trod, 
And fought beneath the Cross of God : 
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms ap- 
pear, 
And their iron clang sounds strange to my 



'■* In these far climes it was my lot 

To meet the wondrous Michael Scott,!^ 

A wizard, of such dreaded fame, 
That when, in Salamanca's cave, 
Him hsted his magic wand to wave, 

The bells would ring in Notre Dame 1 
Some of his skill he taught to me; 
And, Warrior, I could say to thee 
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,l8 

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of 
stone : 
But to speak them were a deadly sin ; 
And for having but thought them my heart 
within, 

A treble penance must be done. 



" When Michael lay on his dying bed, 

His conscience was awakened : 

He bethought him of his sinful deed, 

And he gave me a sign to come with speed ; 

I was in Spain when the morning rose. 

But I stood by his bed ere evening close. 

The words may not again be said. 

That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid ; 

They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave, 

And pile it in heaps above his grave. 



" I swore to bury his Mighty Book, 
That never mortal might therein look ; 



Alexander xl. 



And never to tell where it was hid, 

Save at his Chief of Branksome's need: 

And when that need was past and o'er, 

Again the volume to restore. 

I buried him on St. Michael's night, 

When the bell toU'd one, and the moon -was 

bright. 
And I dug his chamber among the dead. 
When the floor of the chancel was stained 

red, 
That his patron's cross might over him 

wave, 
And scare the fiends from the Wizard's 

grave. 

XVI. 

" It was a night of woe and dread, 
When Michael in the tomb I laid ! 
Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd, 
The banners waved without a blast ; " — 
— Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toU'd 

one ! — 
I tell you, that a braver man 
Than William of Deloraine, good at need, 
Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed ; 
Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread. 
And his hair did bristle upon his head. 



" Lo, Warrior ! now, the Cross of Red 
Points to the grave of the mighty dead ; 
Within it burns a wondrous light. 
To chase the spirits that love the night : 
That lamp shall burn unquenchably, 
Until the eternal doom shall be.'' f — 
SloviT moved the Monk to the broad flag- 
stone. 
Which the bloody Cross was traced upon : 
He pointed to a secret nook ; 
An iron bar the Warrior took ; 
And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd 

hand, 
The grave's huge portal to expand. 

XVIII. 

With beating heart to the task he went ; 
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent; 
With bar of iron heaved amain, 
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like 

rain. 
It was by dint of passing strength, 
That he moved the massy stone at length. 
I would you had been .there, to see 
How the light broke forth so gloriously, 



\ It was a belief of the Middle Ages, that 
eternal lamps were to be found burning in 
ancient sepulchres. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



Stream'd upward to the chancel roof, 
And through the galleries far aloof ! 
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright ". 
It shone like heaven's own blessed light, 

And, issuing from the tomb, 
Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale. 
Danced on the dark-brow'd WaiTior's 
mail, 

And kiss'd his waving plume. 



Befor; their eyes the Wizard lay, 
As if ha had not been dead a day. 
His hoary beard in silver roll'd, 
He seem'd some seventy winters old ; 

A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round, 

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 
Lik ' a pilgrim from beyond the sea ; 

His left hand held his Book of Might ; 

A silver cross v/as in his right ; 

The lamp was placed beside his knee ; 
High and majestic was his look, 
At which the fellest fiends had shook, 
And all unruffled was his face : 
They trusted his soul had gotten grace, 

XX. 

Often had William of Deloraine 
Rode through the battle's bloody plain, 
And trampled down the warriors slain, 

And neither known remorse nor awe ; 
Vet now remorse and awe he own'd ; 
His breath came thick, his head swam 
round, 

When this strange scene of death he saw, 
Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood. 
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud : 
With eyes averted prayed he ; 
He might not endure the sight to see. 
Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 

XXI. 

And when the priest his death-prayer had 

pray'd, 
Thus unto Deloraine he said : — 
" Now, speed thee what thou hast to do. 
Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue ; 
For those, thou may'st not look upon, 
.Are gathering fast round the yawning 

stone ! " — 
Then Deloraine, in terror, took 
From the cold hand the Mighty Book, 
With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound : 
He thought, as he took it, the dead man 

frowii'd ; 



But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight. 

XXII. 

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb. 

The night return'd in double gloom ; 

For the moon had gone down, and the stars 

were few ; 
And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew, 
With wavering steps and dizzy brain. 
They hardly might the postern gain. 
'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'c^ 
They heard strange noises on the blast ; 
And through the cloister-galleries small, 
Which at mid height thread the chancel 

wall. 
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, 
And voices unlike the voice of man ; 
As if the fiends kept holidaj^. 
Because these spells were brought to day. 
I cannot tell how the truth may be ; 
I say the tale as "twas said to me. 



" Now, hie thee hence," the Father said, 

" And when we are on death-bed laid, 

O may our dear Ladv-e, and sweet St. 

John, 
Forgive our souls for the deed we have 
done ! " 
The Monk return'd him to his cell, 

And many a prayer and penance sped ; 
When the convent met at the noontide 
bell— 
The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was 
dead! 
Before the cross was the body laid. 
With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he 
pray'd. 



The Knight breathed free in the morning 

wind. 
And strove his hardihood to find • 
He was glad when hepass'd the tombstones 

gray, 
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye ; 
For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest, 
Felt like a load upon his breast ; 
And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, 
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. 
Full fain was he when the dawn of day 
Began to brighten Cheviot gray ; 
Hejoy'd to see the cheerful light, 
And he said Ave Mary as well as he 

might- 



i6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The sun had brighten'd Cheviot gray, 

The sun had brighten'd the Carter's * 
side ; 
And soon beneath the rising day 

Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's 
tide. 
The wild birds told their warbling tale, 

And waken'd every flower that blows ; 
And peeped forth the violet pale, 

And spread her breast the mountain rose. 
And lovelier than the rose so red, 

Yet paler than the violet pale, 
She early left her sleepless bed. 

The fairest maid of Teviotdale. 

XXVI. 

Why does fafr Margaret so early awake ? 

And don her kirtle so hastihe, 
And the silken knots, which in hurry she 
vvould make, 

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie , 
Why does she stop, and look often around. 

As she glides down the secret stair , 
And why does she pat the shaggy blood- 
hound, 

As he rouses him up from his lair ; 
And, though she passes the postern alone, 
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown .'' 

XXVII. 

The- ladye steps in doubt and dread, 
K^est her watchful mother hear her tread; 
The lady caresses the rough blood-hound, 
Lest his voice should waken the castle 

round, 
The watchman's bugle is not blown, 
For he was her foster-father's son ; 
And she glides through the greenwood at 

dawn of light 
To meet Baron Henry,her own true knight. 

XXVIII. 

The Knight and ladye fair are met. 

And under the hawthorn's boughs are set. 

A fairer pair were never seen 

To meet beneath the hawthorn green. 

He was stately, and young, and tall ; 

Dreaded in battle, and loved in hail : 

And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid. 

Lent to her cheek a livelier red ; 

When the half sigh her swelling breast 

Against the silken ribbon prest ; 



* A mountain on the Border of England, 
above Jedburgh. 



When her blue eyes their secret told, 
Though shaded by her locks of gold — 
Where would you find the peerless fair. 
With Margaret of Branksome might C02S- 
pare? 

XXIX. 

And now, fair dames, methinks I see 

You listen to my minstrelsy ; 

Your waving locks ye backward throw, 

And sidelong bend your necks of snow } 

Ye ween to hear a melting tale. 

Of two true lovers in a dale ; 

And how the Knight, with tender fire, 
To paint his faithful passion strove J 

Swore he might at her feet expire. 
But never, never, cease to love; 
And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd, 
And, half consenting, half denied, 
And said that she would die a maid ; — 
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd, 
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he, 
Margaret of Brankscme's choice sliould be. 



Alas 1 fair dames, your hopes are vain 1 
My harp has lost the enchanting strain; 

Its lightness would my age reprove : 
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old, 
My heart is dead, my veins are cold ; 

1 may not, must not, sing of love. 



j Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, 

The Baron's Dwarf his courser held,'9 
I And held his crested helm and spear : 
That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man, 
If the tales were true that of him ran 

Through all the Border far and near. 
'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting 

rode. 
Through Redesdale's glens, but rarely trod, 
He heard a voice cry, " Lost ! lost I 

lost!" 
And, like tennis-ball by racket toss'd, 

A \t?ip, of thirty feet and three, 
Made from the gorse this elfin shape, 
Distorted like some dwarfish ape. 

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's 
knee. 
Lord Cranstoun was some v/hit dis- 
may 'd; 
'Tis said that five good miles he rade, 
To rid him of his company ; 
But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf 

ran four. 
And the Dwarf was first at the castle deor. 



THE LA V OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



17 



XXXII. 

Use lessens marvel, it is said: 
This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid : 
Little he ate, and less he spoke, 
Nor mingled with the menial flock : 
And oft apart his arms he toss'd, 
And often mutter'd " Lost ! lost ! lost ! " 
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,* 
But well Lord Cranstoun served he : 
And he of his service was full fain 
For once he had been ta'en or slain, 

An it had not been for his ministry. 
All between Home and Hermitage, 
Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. 

XXXIII. 

For the Baron went on Pilgrimage, 
And took with him this elvish Page, 
To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes ; 
For there beside our Ladye's lake, 
An offering he had sworn to make, 

And he would pay his vows. 
But the Ladye of Branksome gather' d a 

band 
Of the best that would ride at her com- 
mand ■ 
The trysting place was Newark Lee. 
Wat of Harden came thither amain, 
And thither came John of Thirlestane, 
And thither came William of Deloraine ; 
They were three hundred spears and 
three. 
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream. 
Their horses prance, their lances gleam. 
They came to St. Mary's lake erj day ; 
But the chapel was void, and the Baron 

away. 
They barn'd the chapel for very rage, 
And' cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin- 
Page. 

XXXIV. 

And now, in Branksome's good green 

wood, 
As under the aged oak he stood. 
The Baron's courser pricks his ears, 
As if a distant noise he hears. 
The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on 

high. 
And signs to the lovers to part and fly ; 
No time was then to vow or sigh. 
F.i;r Margaret through the hazel grove, 
Flew like the startled cushat-dove : 
T!ie Dwarf the stirrup held and rein; 
Vault-d the Knighton his steed amain, 

__ __ 



And, pondering deep that morning's 

scene, 
Rode eastward through the hawthorns 

green. 



I While thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale 

The Minstrel's voice began to fail : 
j Full slyly smiled the observant page, 
I And gave the wither'd hand of age 
\ A goblet crown'd with mighty wine, 
I The blood of Velez' scorched vine. 
He raised the silver cup on high. 
And, while the big drop fiU'd his eye, 
Pray'd G®d to bless the Duchess long, 
And all who cheer'd a son of song. 
The attending maidens smiled to see 
How long, how deep, how zealously, 
The precious juice the Minstrel quaff'd ; 
And he, embolden' d by the draught, 
Look'd gayly back to them, and laugh'd. 
The cordial nectar of the bowl 
Swell'd his old veins, and chear'd his soul ; 
A lighter, livelier prelude ran, 
Ere thus his tale again besfan. 



CANTO THIRD. 



And said I that my limbs were old, 
And said I that my blood was cold, 
And that my kindly fire was fled. 
And my poor wither'd heart was dead, 

And that I might not sing of love?— 
How could I to the dearest theme. 
That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream. 

So foul, so false a recreant prove! 
How could I name love's very name, 
Nor wake my heart to notes of fiame ! 



In peace. Love tunes the shepherd's reed; 

In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; 

In halls, in gay attire is seen ; 

In hamlets, dances on the green. 

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 

And men below, and saints above ; 

For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 

111. 
So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween. 
While, pondering deep the tender scene. 
He rode through Branksome's hawthorn 
green. 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



But the Page shouted wild and shrill, 

And scarce his helmet could he don, 
"When downward from the shady hill 
A stately knight came pricking on. 
That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray, 
Was dark with sweat, and splash'd with 
clay ; 
H-s armor red with many a stain ; 
Ho seem'd in such a weary plight, 
^s if h3 had ridden the live-long night; 
For it was William of Deloraine. 

IV. 

But no whit weary did he seem, 

When, dancing in the sunny beam, 

He mark'd the crane on the baron's crest ; * 

For his ready spear was in his rest. 

Few were the words, and stern and high. 
That mark'd the foemen's feudal 
hate, 
For question fierce, and proud reply, 
Gave signal soon of dire debate. 
Their very coursers seem'd to know 
That each was other's mortal foe, 
And snorted fire, when wheel'd around. 
To give each knight his vantage-ground. 



in rapid round the Baron bent ; 

He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer ; 
The prayer was to his patron samt, 

The sigh was to his ladye fair. 
Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd, 
Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid ; 
But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd hi 

spear, 
And spurr'd his steed to full career. 
The meeting of these champions proud 
Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud. 



Stern was the dint the Borderer lent ! 
The stately Baron backwards bent ; 
Bent backwards to his horse's tail, 
And his plumes went scattering on the 

gale. 
The tough ash spear, so stout and true, 
Into a thousand flinders flew. 
But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail. 
Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's 

mail ; 



* The crest of the Cranstouns, in allusion to 
their name, is a crane, dormant, holding a stone 
in his foot, with an emphatic Border motto, 
Thou shall want ere I avant. Arms thus pun- 
ping on the name, are said heraldically to be 
" canting." 



Through shield, and jack, and acton, past, 
Deep in his bosom, broke at last. — 
Still sate the warrior saddle-fast. 
Till, stumbling in the mortal shock, 
Down went the steed, the girthing broke, 
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse. 
The Baron onward pass'd his course ; 
Nor knew — so giddy roU'd his brain— 
His foe lay stretch' d upon the plain. 



But when he rein'd his courser round, 
And saw his foeman on the ground 

Lie senseless as the bloody clay, 
He bade his page to stanch the wound, 

And there beside the warrior stay. 
And tend him in his doubtful state. 
And lead him to Branksome castle-gate : 
Hisncble mind was inly moved 
For the kinsman of the maid he loved. 
" This shalt thou do without delay ; 
No longer here myself may stay ; 
Unless the swifter I speed away. 
Short shrift will be at my dying day." 



Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode ; 

The Goblin Page behind abode ; 

His lord's command he ne'er withstood, 

Though small his pleasure to do good. 

As the corslet off he took. 

The dwarf espied the Mighty Book ! 

Much he marvell'd a knight of pricit, , 

Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride ; f 

He thought not to search or stanch th« 

wound, ■ 

Until the secret he ha^found. 

The iron band, the iron clasp, 
Resisted long the elfin grasp : 
For when the first he had undone, 
It closed as he the next begun. 
Those iron clasps, that iron band. 
Would not yield to unchristen'd hand, 
Till he smear'd the cover o'er 
With the Borderer's curdled gore ; 
A moment then the volume spread, 
And one short spell therein he read. 
It had much of glamour | might. 
Could make a ladye seem a knight ; 
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall 
Seem tapestry in lordly hall ; 



t Priests were wont to carry their mass- 
book, for burying and marrying, &c., in theif 
bosoms. 

X Magical delusion. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



19 



A nut-shell seem a gilded barge, 

A sheeling * seem a palace large, 

And youth seem age, and age seem youth — 

All was delusion, nought was truth.20 



He had not read another spell, 

When on his cheek a buffet fell, 

So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain, 

Beside the wounded Deloraine. 

From the ground he rose dismay' d, 

And shook his huge and matted head ; 

One word he mutter'd, and no more, 

"Man of age, thou smitest sore 1 " — 

No more the Elfin Page durst try 

Into the wondrous Book to pry ; 

The clasps, though smear'd with Christian 

gore. 
Shut faster than they were before. 
He hid it underneath his cloak. — 
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, 
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive ; 
It was not given by man alive. 

XI. 

Unwillingly himself he address'd, 
To do his master's high behest : 
He lifted up the living corse. 
And laid it on the weary horse ; 
He led him into Branksome Hall, 
Before the beards of the warders all ; 
And each did after swear and say, 
There only pass'd a wain of hay. 
He took him to Lord David's tower. 
Even to the Ladye's secret bower ; 
And, but that stronger spells were spread. 
And the door might not be opened. 
He had laid him on her very bed. 
Whate'er he did of gramarye.f 
Was always done maliciously ; 
He flung the warrior on the ground. 
And the blood well'd freshly from the 
wound. 

XII. 

As he repass' d *^he outer court, 

He spied the fair young child at sport ; 

He thought to train him to the wood ; 

For, at a word, be it undJkstood, 

He was always for ill, and never for good. 

Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay 

Led.him forth to the woods to play; 

On the drawbridge the warders stout 

Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out. 



• A shepherd's hut. 



t Magic. 



He led the boy o'er bank and fell. 

Until they came to a woodland brook ; ^i 
The running stream dissolved the spell, 

And his own elvish shape he took. 
Could he have had his pleasure vilde, 
lie had crippled the joints of the nobl^ 

child ; 
Or, with his fingers long and lean. 
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen ; 
But his awful mother he had in dread, 
And also his power was limited ; 
So he but scowl'd on the startled child, 
And darted through the forest wild ; 
The woodland brook he bounding cross'd. 
And laugh'd, and shouted, " Lost ! lost r 

lost!"— 



Full sore amazed at the wondrous change 

And frighten'd as a child might be, 
At the wild yell and visage strange, 

And the dark words of gramarye. 
The child, amidst the forest bovver, 
Stood rooted like a lily flower ; 

And when, at length, with trembling 
pace. 
He sought to find where Branksome lay, 

He fear'd to see that grisly face 
Glare from some thicket on his way. 
Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on. 
And deeper in the wood is gone, — 
For aye the more he sought his way, 
The farther still he went astray, — 
Until he heard the mountains round 
Ring to the baying of a hound. 



And hark ! and hark ! the deep-mouth'd 
bark 

Comes nigher still, and nigher : 
Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound, 
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground, 

And his red eye shot fire. 
Soon as the wilder'd child saw he 
He flew at him right furiouslie. 
I ween you^ would have seen with joy 
The bearing of the gallant boy. 
When, worthy of his noble sire, 
His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire I 
Fie faced the blood-hound manfully. 
And held his little bat on high ; 
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid, 
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd 

But still in act to spring ; \ 



so 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Whan dash'd an archer through the glade, 
And when he saw the hound was stay'd, 

He drew his tough bow-string ; 
But a rough voice cried, " Shoot not, hoy 1 
Ho ! shoot not, Edward — 'Tis a boy ! " 



The speaker issued from the wood. 
And chcckM his fellow's surly mood, 

And quell'd the ban-dog's ire : 
Ko was an English yeoman good. 

And born m Lancashire, 
Well could he hit a fallow-deer 

Five hundred feet him fro; 
With hand more true, and eye more clear, 

\o archer bended Dow. 
His coal black hair, shorn round and close, 

Set off his sun burn'd face ; 
Old England's sign, St. George's cross, 

His barret-cap did grace ; 
His bugle-horn hung by his side, 
All in a wolf-skin baldric tied ; 
And his short falchion, sharp and clear. 
Had pierced the throat of many a deer. 



His kirtle, made of forest greeo, 

Reach'd scantly to his knee ; 
And, ac his belt, of arrows keen 

A furbish'd sheaf bore he ; 
His buckler, scarce in breadth a span, 

No larger fence had he ; 
He never counted him a man, 

Would strike below the knee ; ^^ 
His slacken'd bow was in his hand, 
And the leash, that was his blood-hound's 
band. 

XVIII. 

He would not do the fair child harm, 
But held him witli his powerful arm, 
That he might neither fight nor flee ; 
For when the Red-Cross spied he, 
The boy strove long and violently, 
" Now, by St. George," the archer cries, 
" Edward, methinks we have a prize ! 
This boy's fair face, and courage free, 
Show he is come of high degree." — 



*' Yes ! I r.m come of high degree. 
For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch , 

And, if thou dost not set me free, 

False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue ! 

For Walter of Harden shall come with 
speed, 

iind William of Deloraine, good at need, 



And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed ; 
And, if thou dost not let me go, 
Despite thy arrows, and thy bow, 
I'll have thee hans'd to feed the crow ! " — 



" Gramercy,* for thy good-will, fair boy ! 
My mind was never set so high ; 
But if thou art chief of such a clan, 
And art the son of such a man, 
And ever comest to thy command, 

Our wardens had need to keep good 
order ; 
My bow of yew to a hazel wand, 

Thou'lt make them work upon the 
Border. 
Meantime, be pleased to come with me, 
For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see ; 
I think our work is well begun, 
When we have taken thy father's son." 



Although the child was led av>'ay, 
In Branksorne still he cecm'd to stay, 
For so the Dwarf his pert did play ; 
And, in the shape of thrit ycung toy, 
He wrought the cast;e much snr.cy. 
The comrades of the young Buccleuch 
He pirch'd, ?sA beat, and overthrew ,- 
Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew. 
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken t>re, 
And, as Sym Hall steed by the f.re, 
He lighted the match of his bandel;er,t 
And wofully scorch'd the hackbutecr.J 
It may be hardiy thought or said. 
The mischief that the urchin made, 
Till many of the castle guess'd 
That the young Baron was possess'd! 

XXII. 

Well I ween the charm he held 
The noble Ladye had soon dispelled ; 
But she was deeply busied then 
To tend the wounded Deloraine. 

Much she wonder'd to find him lie, 

On the stone threshold strctch'd along ; 

She thought some spirit of the sky 

Had done the^bold moss trccpcr wrong; 
Because, despite ner precept dread, 
Perchance he in the Book had read ; 
But the broken lance m his bosom stcod, 
And it was earthly steel and wood. 



* Gravid nterct, thanks. 

+ PanddUer, belt for cm ryiug aminuiutlon. 

t Hackbntcar, musketeer. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



XXIII. 

She drew the splinter from the wound, 
And with a charm she stanch'd the 
blood ; 

She bade the gash be cleansed and bound ; 
No longer by his couch she stood ; 

3ut she has ta'en the broken lance, 
And wash'd it from the clotted gore, 
And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.* 

William of Deloraine, in trance, 

Whene'er she tuin'd it round and round, 
Twisted as if she gall'd his wound. 
Then to her maidens she did saj^, 
That he should be whole man and sound, 
Within the course of a night and day. 

/"uU long she toiVd ; for she did rue 

Mishap tj friend so stout and true. 

XXIV. 

So pass'd the day — the evening fell, 

'Tvvas near the time of curfew bell ; 

The air was mild, the wind was calm. 

The stream was smooth, the dew was balm ; 

E'en the rude watchman, on the tower, 

Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour. 

Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd 

The hour of silence and of rest.- 

On the high turret sitting lone. 

She waked at times the lute's soft tone ; 

Touch'd a wild note, and all between 

Thought of the bower of hawthorns green. 

Her golden hair stream'd free from band, 

Her fair cheek rested on her hand, 

Her blue eyes sought the west afar. 

For lovers love the western star. 



Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, 

That rises slowly to her ken, 

And, spreading broad its wavering light, 

Shakes its loose tresses on the night ? 

Is yon red glare the western star ? — 

O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war ! 

Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath, 

For well she knew the fire of death ! 



The Warder view'd it blazing strong. 
And blew his war-note loud and long, 
Till, at the high and haughty sound, 
Rock, wood, and river rung around. 
The blast alarm'd the festal hall. 
And startled forth the warriors all ; 

* This was called the cure by sympathy. 
Sir Kendm Digby was wont occasionally to 
practise it. 



Far downward, in the castle-yard, 
Full many a torch and cresset glared ; 
And helms and plumes, confusedly toss'd, 
^Vere in the blaze half-seen, half-lost ; 
And spears in wild disorder shook, 
Like reeds beside a frozen brook. 

XXVII. 

The Seneschal, whose silver hair 
Was redden'd by the torches' glare, 
Stood in the midst, with gesture proud, 
And issued forth his mandates loud : 
" On Penchryst glows a bale t cf fire, 
And three are kindling on Priesthaugh 
swire ; 

Ride out, ride out, 

The foe to scout ! 
Mount, mount for Branksome,i every ir.an. 
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan, 

That ever are true and stout — 
Ye need not send to Liddesdale ; 
For when they see the blazing bale, 
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail. — 
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life ! 
And warn the Warder cf the strife, 
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze, 
Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise." 

XXVIII. 

Fair Margaret from the turret head. 
Heard, far below, the coutsers' tread, 

While loud the harness rung, 
As to their "seats, wiih clamor dread, 

The ready horsemen sprung : 
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats, 
And leaders' voices, mingled notes, 
And out ! and out ! 
In hasty route. 

The horsemen gallop' d forth ; 
Dispersing to the south to scou:, 

And east, and west, and north, 
To view their coming enemies, 
And warn their vassals and allies. 

XXIX. 

The ready page, with hurried hand, 
Awaked the need-fire's § slumbering brand. 

And ruddy blush'd the heaven : 
For a sheet of flame, from the turret high, 
Waved like a bleed-flag on the sky, 

All flaring and uneven ; 
And soon a score cf fires, I ween, 
From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen ; 



t A Border beacon. 

X Motint for Bra7ikso',ne was the gathering 
word of the Scotts. 
§ Need-fircy beacon. 



22 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Each with warlike tidings fraught ; 
Each from each the signal caught ; 
Each after each they glanced to sight, 
As stars arise upon the night. 
They gleam'd on many a dusky tarn,* 
Haunted by the lonely earn ; t_ 
On many a cairn's gray pyramid, 
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid ; ^^ 
Till high Dunedin the blazes saw, 
From Soltra and Dumpender Law ; 
And Lothian heard the Regent's order, 
That all should bowne % them for the 
Border. 

XXX. 

The livelong night in Branksome rang 

The ceaseless sound of steel ; 
The castle-bell, with backward clang. 

Sent forth the larum peal ; 
Was frequent heard the heavy jar, 
Where massy stone and iron bar 
Were piled on echoing keep and tower. 
To whelm the foe with deadly shower ; 
Was frequent heard the changing guard. 
And watchword from the sleepless ward ; 
While, wearied by the endless din. 
Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within. 



The noble Dame, amid the broil. 
Shared the gray Seneschal's high toil. 
And spoke of danger with a smile ; 
Cheer'd the young knights, and council 

sage 
Held with the chiefs of riper age. 
No tidings of the foe were brought. 
Nor of his numbers knew they aught. 
Nor what in time of truce he sought. 

Some said, that there were thousands ten ; 
And others ween'd that it was nought 

But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men, 
Who came to gather in black-mail ; § 
And Liddesdale, with small avail, 

Might drive them lightly back agen. 
So pass'd the anxious night away. 
And welcome was the peep of day. 



Ceased the high sound — the listening 

throng 
Applaud the Master of the Song ; 
And marvel much, in helpless age. 
So hard should be his pilgrimage. 



♦ Tarn, a mountain lake. 

t Earn, a Scottish eagle. 

X Bowne, make ready. 

§ Protection money exactsd oy freebooters. 



Had he no friend — no daughter .iear, 
His wandering toil to share and cheer : 
No son to be his father's stay. 
And guide him on the rugged way .' 
" Ay, once he had — but he was dead ! '* 
Upon the harp he stoop'd his head. 
And busied himself the strings withal, 
To hide the tear that fain would fall. 
In solemn measure, soft and slow, 
Arose a father's notes of woe. 



CANTO FOURTH. 



Sweet Teviot ! on thy silver tid« 

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more , 
No longer steel-clad warriors ride 

Along thy wild and willow'd shore; 
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, 
All, all is peaceful, all is still. 

As if thy waves, since Time was born, 
Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed, 
Had only heard the shepherd's reed, 

Nor started at the bugle-horn. 



Unlike the tide of human time, 

Which, though it change in ceaselesi 
flow. 
Retains each grief, retains each crime 

Its earliest course was doom'd to know, 
And, darker as it downward bears. 
Is stain'd with past and present tears. 

Low as that tide has ebb'd with me, 
It still reflects to Memory's eye 
The hour my brave, my only boy. 

Fell by the side of great Dundee. || 
Why, when the volleying musket play'd 
Against the bloody Highland blade. 
Why was not I beside him laid ! — 
Enough — he died the death of fame ! 
Enough — he died with conquering GrEEme. 

III. ■ 
Now over Border, dale, and fell, 

Full wide and far was terror spread ; 
For pathless marsh, and mountain cell. 

The peasant left his lowly shed.-* 
The frighten'd flocks and herds were pent 
Beneath the peel's rude batjtlement; 
And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear. 
While ready warriors seized the spear. 



II Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, slain ix> 
the battle of Killicrankie, 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.. 



23 



From sSranksome's towers, the watchman's 

eye 
Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy, 
Which, curling in the rising sun, 
Bhow'd southern ravage was begun. 



Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried — 
" Prepare ye all for blows and blood ! 
Watt Tinlinn,25 from the Liddel-side, 

Comes wading through the flood. 
Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock 
At his lone gate, and prove the lock ; 
It was but last St. Barnabright * 
They sieged him a whole summer night, 
But fled at morning ; well they knew, 
In vain he never twang'd the yew. 
Right sharp has been the evening shower, 
That drove him from his Liddel tower ; 
And by my faith," the gate-ward said, 
•' I think 'twill prove a Warden- Raid." f 



While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman 

Enter'd the echoing barbican. 

He led a small and shaggy nag, 

That through a bog, from hag to hag,J 

Could bound like any Billhope stag. 

It bore his wife and children twain ; 

A half-clothed serf § was all their train ; 

His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd, 

Of silver brooch and bracelet proud. 

Laugh' d to her friends among the crowd. 

He was of stature passing tall, 

But sparely form'd, and lean withal ; 

A batter' d morion on his brow ; 

A leather jack, as fence enow. 

On his broad shoulders loosely hung ; 

A border axe behind was slune ; 

His spear,^ix 5 cattish ellrui length, 
Seem'd newly dyed with gore ; 

His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength, 
His hardy partner bore. 



Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show 
The tidings of the English foe : — 
" Belted Will Howard ^^ is marching here, 
And hot Lord Dacre ^^ with many a spear, 

*St. Barnabas's day, June ir. It is still 
called Barnaby Bright in Hants, from its being 
generally a bright sunshiny day. 

t An inroad commanded by the Warden in 
person. 

% The broken ground in a bog. 

§ Bondsman. 



And all the German hackbut-men,-^ 
Who have long lain at Askerten : 
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour. 
And burn'd my little lonely tower : 
The fiend receive their souls therefor ! 
It had not been burnt this year and more. 
Barn-yard and dweiling, blazing bright, 
Served to guide me on my flight ; 
But I was chased the livelong night. 
Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus 

Graeme, 
Fast upon my traces came, 
Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg, 
And shot their horses in the bog. 
Slew Fergus with my lance outright — 
I had him long at high despite : 
He drove my cows last Fastern's night." 1| 



Now weary scouts from Liddesdaie, 
Fast hurrying in, confirm'd the tale ; 
As far as they could judge by ken, 

Three hours would bring to Teviot's 
strand 
Three thousand armed Englishmen — 
Meanwhile, full many a warlike band. 
From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade. 
Came in, their Chief's defence to aid. 
There was saddling and mounting in 
haste. 
There was pricking o'er moor and lea ; 
He that was last at the trysting place 
Was but lightly held of his gaye ladye. 

vni. • 

From fair St. Mary's silver wave. 

From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky height, 
His ready lances Thirlestane brave 

Array'd beneath a banner bright. 
The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims. 
To wreathe his shield, since royal James, 
Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave. 
The proud distinction grateful gave, 

For faith 'mid feudal jars ; 
What time, save Thirlestane alone, 
Of Scotland's stubborn barons none 

Would march to southern wars ; 
And hence, in fair remembrance worn, 
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne ; 
Hence his high motto shines reveal'd — 
" Ready , aye ready," for the field.^9 



II Shrove Tuesday, the eve of the great Spring 
fast. 



24 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



An aged Knight, to clanger steel'd, 

With many a moss-trooper, came on : 
And azure in a golden field, 
The stars and crescent graced his shield, 

Without the bend of Murdieston. 
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower. 
And wide round haunted Castle-Ower ; 
High over Borthwick's mountain flood, 
His wood-embosom' d mansion stood, 
In the dark glen, so deep below. 
The herds of plunder'd England low; 
His bold retainers' daily food, 
And bought with danger, blows, and blood. 
Marauding chief ! his sole delight 
The moonlight raid, the morning fight; 
Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms, 
In youth, might tame his rage for arms ; 
And still, in age, he spurn'd at rest, 
And still his brows the helmet press'd, 
Albeit the blanched locks below 
Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow ; 

Five stately warriors drew the sword 
Before their father's band ; 

A braver knight than Warden's lord 
Ne'er belted on a brand.* 



Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band, 

Came troopmg down the Todshawhill ; 
By the sword they won their land. 

And by the sword they hold it still. 
Harken, Ladye, to the tale. 
How thy sires won fair Eskdale. — 
Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair, 
The Beattisons were his vassals there. 
The Earl was gentle, and mild of mood, 
The vassals were warlike, and fierce, and 

rude ; 
High of heart, and haughty of word. 
Little they reck'd of a tame liege lord. 
The Earl into fair Eskdale came. 
Homage and seignory to claim : 
Of Gilbert tfie Galliard a heriot f he 

sought. 
Saying, " Give thy best steed, as a vassal 

ought." 
— " Dear to me is my bonny white steed. 
Oft has he help'd me at pinch of need ; 
Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow, 
I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou." 



*This knight was the ancestor of Sir Walter 
Scott. 

t The feudal superior, in certain cases, was 
entitled to the best horse of the vassal, in name 
ti Heriot, or Herezeld. 



Word on word gave fuel to fire, 

Till so highly blazed the Beattisons' ire, 

But that the Earl the flight had ta'en, 

The vassals there their lord had slain. 

Sore he plied both whip and spur. 

As he urged his steed through Eskdale 

muir ; 
And it fell down a weary weight, 
Just on the threshold of Branksome gate. 

XI. 

The Earl was a wrathful man to see, 
Full fain avenged would he be. 
In haste to Branksome's Lord he spoke, 
Saying — " Take these traitors to thy yoke; 
For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold. 
All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and 

hold ; 
Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan 
If thou leavest on Eske a landed man ; 
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone. 
For he lent me his horse to escape upon." 
A glad man then was Branksome bold, 
Down he flung him the purse of gold ; 
To Eskdale soon he spurrd am.am. 
And with him five hundred riders has ta'en. 
He left his merrymen in the mist of ths 

hill. 
And bade them hold them close and still ; 
And alone he wended to the plain, 
To meet with the Galliard and all his train. 
To Gilbert the GaUiard thus he said :— 
" Know thou me for thy liege-lord and 

head, 
Deal not with me as with Morton tame, 
For Scotts play best at the roughest game. 
Give me in peace my heriot due, 
Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue. 
If my horn I three times wind, 
Eskdale shall long have the sound in mind." 

XII. 

Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in scorn ; 
" Little care we for thy winded horn. 
Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot. 
To yield his steed to a haughty Scott. 
Wend thou to Branksome back on foot, 
With rusty spur and miry boot." — 
He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse. 
That the dun deer started at fair Craik- 

cross : 
He blew again so loud and clear. 
Through the gray mountain-mist there did 

lances appear : 
And the third blast rang with such a din, 



THE LA y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



25 



That the echoes answer'd from Pentoun- 

linn, 
And all his riders came lightly in. 
Then had you seen a gallant shock, 
When saddles were emptied, and lances 

broke ! 
For each scornful word the Galliard had 

said, 
A Beattison on the field was laid. 
His own good sword the Chieftain drew, 
And he bore the Galliard through and 

through : 
Where the Beattison's blood mix'd with 

the rill, 
The Galliard's-Haugh men call it still. 
The Scotts have scatter'd the Beattison clan. 
In Eskdale they left but one landed man. 
The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the 

source, 
Was lost and won for that bonny white 

horse. 



Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came, 
And warriors more than I may name ; 
From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugli-swair, 

From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen, 
Troop'd man and horse, and bow and spear ; 

Their gathering word was Bellenden.-^^ 
And better hearts o'er Border sod 
To siege or rescue never rode. 

The Ladyemark'd the aids come in, 
And high her heart of pride arose : 
She bade her youthful son attend, 
That he might know his father's friend, 

And learn to face his foes. 
*' The boy -is ripe to look on war ; 

I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff, 
And his true arrow struck afar 
The raven's nest upon the cliff ; 
The red cross, on a southern breast, 
Is broader than the raven's nest : 
Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his 

weapon to wield, 
And o'er him hold his father's shield." 



Well may you think, the wily page 
Cared not to face the Ladye sage. 
He counterfeited childish fear, 
And shriek'd, and shed full many a tear. 
And moan'd and plain'd in manner wild. 

The attendants to the Ladye told, 

Some fairy, sure had changed the child. 

That wont to be so free and bold. 



Therv wrathful was the noble dame ; 
She blush' d blood-red for very shame : — 
" Hence ! ere the clan his faintness view ; 
Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch ! — 
Wat Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide 
To Rangleburn's lonely side. — 
Sure some fell fiend has cursed cur line, 
That coward should e'er be son of mine ! "--' 

XV. 

A heavy task Wat Tinlinn had, 
To guide the counterfeited Jad. 
Soon as the palfrey felt the weight 
Of that ill-omen'd elfish freight. 
He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amain, 
Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein. 
It cost Wat Tinlinn mickle toil 
To drive him but a Scottish mile ; 

But as a shallow brook they cross'd. 
The elf, amid the running stream. 
His figure changed, like form in dream,. 
And fled, and shouted, " Lost ! lost ! 
lost ! » 
Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd. 
But faster still a cloth-yard shaft 
Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew. 
And pierced his shoulder through and 

through. 
Although the imp might not be slain. 
And though th.e wound soon heal'd again, 
Yet, as he ran, he yell'd for pain ; 
And Wat of Tinlinn, much aghast, 
Rqde back to Branksome fiery fast. 



Soon on the Hill's steep verge he stood, 
That looks o'er Branksome' s towers and 

wood ; 
And martial murmurs, from below, 
Proclaim'd the approaching southern foe. 
Through the dark wood, in mingled tone, 
Were Border pipes and bugles blown ; 
The coursers' neighing he could ken, 
A measured tread of marching men ; 
While broke at times the solemn hum, 
The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum ; 
And banners tall, of crimson sheen. 

Above the copse appear ; 
And, glistening through the hawthorns 
green. 

Shine helm, and shield, and spear. 



Light forayers, first, to view the ground, 
Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round j 



26 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Behind, in dose array, and fast. 

The Kendal archers, all in green, 
Obedient to the bugle blast, 

Advancing from the wood were seen. 
To back and guard the archer band, 
Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand : 
A hardy race, on Irthing bred, 
With kirtles white, and crosses red, 
Array'd beneath the banner tall, 
That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd wall ; 
And minstrels, as they march'd in order, 
Play'd " Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on 
the Border." 

XVIII. 

Behind the English bill and bow, 
The mercenaries, firm and slow, 

Moved on to fight, in dark array. 
By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, 
Who brought the band from distant Rhine, 

And sold their blood for foreign pay. 
The camp their home, th.eir law the sword. 
They knew no country, own'd no lord : 
They were not arm'dlike England's sons. 
But bore the levin-darting guns ; 
Buff-coats, all frounced and broider'd o'er, 
And morsin-horns * and scarfs they wore ; 
Each better knee was bared, to aid 
The warriors in the escalade ; 
All, as they march'd, in rugged tongue, 
Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. 

XIX. 

But louder still the clamor grew, 
And louder still the minstrels blew, 
"When, from beneath the greenwood tree, 
Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry ; 
His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear. 
Brought up the battle's glittering rear. 
There many a youthful knight, full keen 
To gain his spurs, in arms was seen ; 
With favor in his crest, or glove, 
Memorial of his ladye-love. 
So rode they forth in fair array. 
Till full their lengthen'd lines display ; 
Then call'd a halt, and made a stand, 
And cried, " St. George, for merry Eng- 
land 1 " 

XX. 

Now every English eye, intent 
On Branksome's armed towers were bent ; 
So near they were, that they might know 
The straining harsh of each cross-bow ; 



Powder flasks. 



On battlement and bartizan 
Gleam'd axe, and spear, and partisan ; 
Falcon and culver,! on each tower. 
Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower ; 
And flashing armor frequent broke 
From eddying whirls of sable smoke, 
Where upon tower and turret head. 
The seething pitch and molten lead 
Reek'd, like a witch's caldron red. 
While yet they gaze, the bridges fall, 
The wicket opes, and from the wall 
Rides forth the hoary Seneschal. 

XXI. 

Armed he rode, all save the head. 

His white beard o'er his breast-plate spread ; 

Unbroke by age, erect his seat, 

He ruled hie eager courser's gait ; 

Forced him, with chasten'd fire, to prance, 

And, high curvetting, slow advance : 

In sign of truce, his better hand 

Display'd a peeled willow wand ; 

His squire, attending in the rear, 

Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.f 

When they espied him riding out. 

Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout 

Sped to the front of their array, 

To hear what this old knight should say. 



" Ye English warden lords, of you 
Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch, 
Why, 'gainst the truce of Border tide, 
In hostile guise ye dare to ride. 
With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand, 
And all yon mercenary band. 
Upon the bounds of fair Scotland ? 
My Ladye redes you swith § return ; 
And, if but one poor straw you bum, 
Or do our towers so much molest. 
As scare one swallow from her nest, 
St, Mary ! but we'll light a brand 
Shall warm your hearths in Cumberland.' 

XXIII 

A wrathful man was Dacre's lord, 
But calmer Howard took the word : 



t Ancient pieces of artillery. 

X A glove upon a lance was the emblem of 
faith among the ancient Borderers, who were 
wont, wlien any one broke his word, to expose 
this emblem, and proclaim him a faithless vil- 
lain at the first Border meeting. This cent* 
monv was much dreaded. — See Lesley. 

§ 'Swiihy instantly 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



27 



" May't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal, 
To seek the castle's outward wall, 
Our pursuivant-at-arms shail show 
Both why we came, and when we go,"- 
The messas^e sped, the noble Dame 
To the wall's outward circle came ; 
Each chief around lean'd on his spear, 
To see the pursuivant appear. 
All /n Lord Howard's hvery dress'd, 
The lion argent decked his breast ; 
He led a boy of blooming hue — 
O siglit to meet a mother's view ! 
It was the heir of great Buccleuch. 
Obeisance meet the herald made, 
And thu6 his master's will he said:— 



" It irks, high Dame,.my noble Lords, 
'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords : 
But yet they may not tamely see, 
All through the Western Wardenry, 
Your law-contemning kinsmen ride, 
And burn and spoil the Border-side ; 
And ill beseems your rank and birth 
To make your towers a flemens-firth.* 
We claim from thee William of Deloraine, 
That he may suffer march-treason 3' pain. 
It was but last St. Cuthbert's even 
He prick'd to Stapleton on Leven, 
Harried t the lands of Richard Musgrave, 
And slew his brother by dint of glaive. 
Then, since a lone and widow'd Dame 
These restless riders may not tame, 
Either receive within thy towers 
Two hundred of my master's powers. 
Or straight they sound their warrison,J 
An^ storm and spoil thy garrison : 
And this fair boy, to London led. 
Shall good King Edward's page be bred." 

XXV. 

He ceased — and loud the boy did cry, 
And stretch'd his little arms on high ; 
Implored for aid each well-known iface, 
And strove to seek the Dame's embrace. 
A moment changed that Ladye's cheer, 
Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear ; 
She gazed upon the leaders round. 
And dark and sad each warrior frown'd ; 
Then, deep within her sobbing breast 
.She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest ; 
TJnalter'd and collected stood. 
And thus replied, in dauntless mood :— 



* An asylum for outlaws. 
t Plundered. % Note of assault. 



XXVI. 

" Say to your Lords of high em prize, 

Who war on women and on boys, 

Tliat either William of Deloraine 

Will cleanse him, by oath, of march-treasoa 

stain, 
Or else he will the combat take 
'Gainst Musgrave, for his honor's sake. 
No knight in Cumberland so good, 
But William may count with him kin and 

blood. 
Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword,** 
When English blood swell'd Ancram's 

ford ; 33 
And but Lord Dacre's steed was wight, 
And bare him ably in the flight, 
Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight. 
For the young heir of Branksome's line, 
God be his aid, and God be mine ; 
Through me no friend shall meet his 

doom ; 
Here, while I live, no foe finds room. 
Then, if thy Lords their purpose urge, 

Take our defiance loud and high ; 
Our slogan is their lykewake§ dirge, 

Our moat, the grave where they shall 
lie." 

XXVII. 

Proud she look'd round, applause to claim — 
Then hghten'd Thirlestane's eye of fiame; 

His bugle Wat of Harden blew ; 
Pensils and pennons wide were flung, 
To heaven the Border slogan rung, 

" St. Mary for the young Buccleuch 1 " 
The English war-cry ansvver'd wide, 

And forward bent each southern spear; 
Each Kendal archer made a stride, 

And drew the bowstring to his ear ; 
Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown :— 
But, ere a gray-goose shaft had flown, 

A horseman gallop'd from the rear. 

XXVIIl. 

" Ah ! noble Lords ? " he breathless said, 
" What treason has your march betray'd? 
What make you here, from aid so far, 
Before you walls, around you war .-* 
Your foemen triumph in the thought, 
That in the toils the lion's caught. 
Already on dark Ruberslaw 
The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw ; |) 



§ Watching a corpse all nights 
fl Weapon-schaiv — military gathering o£ a 
chief's followers, or the army of a county. 



28 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The lances, wavring in his train, 

Clotlie the dun heath Uke autumn grain ; 

And on the Liddel's northern strand, 

To bar retreat to Cumberland, 

Lord Maxwell ranks his merry-men good, 

Beiieath the eagle and the rood ; 

And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale, 

Have to proud Angus come ; 
And all the Merse and Lauderdale 
Have risen with haughty Home. 
An exile from Northumberland, 

In Liddesdale I've wander'd long ; 
But still my heart was with merry Eng- 
land, 
And cannot brook my country's wrong ; 
And hard I've spurr'd all night to show 
The mustering of the coming foe." 



"And let them come!" fierce Dacre cried; 
" For soon yon crest, my fathers pride, 
That swept the shores of Judah's sea, 
And waved in gales of Galilee, 
From Branksome's highest towers dis- 

play'd. 
Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid!— 
Level each harquebuss on row ; 
Draw, merry archers, draw the bow ; 
Up, bill-men, to the walls, and cry, 
Dacre for England, win or die! " 



" Yet hear," quoth Howard, " calmly hear, 

Nor deem my words the words of fear : 

For who, in field or foray slack, 

Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back ? 34 

But thus to risk our Border flower 

In strife against a kingdom's power, 

Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands 

three, 
Certes, were desperate policy. 
Nay, take tlie terms the Ladye made. 
Ere conscious of tlie advancing aid : 
Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine 
In single fight, and, if he gain. 
He gains for us ; but if he's cross'd, 
'Tis but a single warrior lost : 
The rest, retreating as they came, 
Avcid defeat, and death, and shame." 



Ill could the haughty Dacre brook 
His brother Warden's sage rebuke ; 
And yet his forward step he staid, 
And slow and sullenly obey'd. 



But ne'er again the Boreler side 
Did these two lords in friendship ride ; 
And this slight discontent, men say, 
Cost blood upon another day. 

XXXII. 

The pursuivant-at-arms again 

Before the castle took his stand ; 
His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain. 

The leaders of the Scottish bajid ; 
And he defied, in Musgrave's right, 
Stout Deloraine to single fight; 
A gauntlet at their feet he laid. 
And thus the terms of fight he said : — 
" If in the lists good Musgrave's sword 

Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine, 
Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's Lord 

Shall hostage for his clan remain : 
If Deloraine foil good Musgrave, 
The boy his liberty shall have. 

Howe'er it falls, the English band, 
Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd, 
In peaceful march, like men unarm'd, 

Shall straisrht retreat to Cumberland." 



Unconscious of the near relief, 

The proffer pleased each Scottish chief, 

Though much the Ladye sage gainsay'd ; 
For though their hearts were brave and 

true, 
From Jedwood's recent sack they knew, 

How tardy was the Regent's aid : 
And you may guess the noble Dame 

Durst not the secret prescience own, 
Sprung from the art she might not name, 

By which the coming help was known. 
Closed was the compact, and agreed 
That lists should be enclosed with speed, 

Beneath the castle, on a lawn : 
They fix'd the morrow for tlie strife. 
On foot, with Scottish axe and knife. 

At the fourth hour from peep of dawn; 
When Deloraine, from sickness freed, 
Or else a champion in his stead, 
Should for himself and chieftain stand, 
Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand. 

XXXIV. 

I know right well, that, in their lay, 
Full many minstrels sing and say, 

Such combat should be made on horse, 
On foaming steed, in full career 
With brand to aid, v.'hen as the spear 

Should shiver in the course : 
But he, the jovial Harper, taught 
Me, yet a youth, how it was fought, 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 



29 



In guise which now I say ; 
He knew each ordinance and clause 
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws, 

In the old Douglas' day. 
He brook'd not, he, that scoffing tongue 
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong, 

Or call his song untrue : 
For this, when they the goblet plied, 
And such rude taunt had chafed his pride, 

The Bard of ReuU he slew. 
•On Teviot's side, in fight they stood, 
And tuneful hands were stain'd with blood ; 
Where still the thorn's white branches 

wave, 
Memorial o'er his rival's grave. 

XXXV. 

Why should I tell the rigid doom, 
That dragg'd my master to his tomb ; 

How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair, 
Wept till their eyes were dead and dim, 
And wrung their hands for love of him, 

Who died at Jedwood Air? 
He died ! — his scholars, one by one, 
To the cold silent grave are gone ; 
And I, alas ! survive alone, 
To muse o'er rivalries of yore, 
And grieve that I shall hear no mere 
The strains, with envy heard before ; 
For, with my minstrel brethren fled, 
My jealousy of song is dead. 



He paused : the listening dames again 
Applaud t'ne hoary Minstrel's strain. 
With many a word of kindly cheer, — 
In pity half, and half sincere, — 
Marvell'd the Duchess how so well 
His legendary song could tell — 
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot; 
Of feuds, whose memory was not ; 
Of forests, now laid waste and bare ; 
Of towers, which harbor now the hare'; 
Of manners, long since changed and gone ; 
Of chiefs, who under their gray stone 
So long had slept, that fickle Fame 
Had blotted from her rolls their name. 
And twined round some new minion's head 
The fading wreath for which they bled ; 
t In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse 
Could call them from their marble hearse. 

The Harper smiled, well-pleased ; for 
ne'er 
Was flattery lost on poet's ear : 
A simple race ! they waste their toil 
For the vain tribute of a smile ; 



E'en when in age their flame expires, 
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires : 
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise. 
And strives to trim the short-lived blaze. 

Smiled then, well-pleased, the Aged Man, 
And thus his tale continued ran. 



CANTO FIFTH 



Call it not vain : — they do not err, 
Who say, that when the Poet dies, 

Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, 
And celebrates his obsequies : 

Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone. 

For the departed Bard make moan ; 

That mountains weep in crystal rilV; 

That flowers in tears of balm distil ; 

Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, 

And oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; 

And rivers teach their rushing wave 

To murmur dirges round his grave, i 



Not that, in scoth, o'er mortal urn 

Those things inanimate can mourn ; 

But that the stream, the wood, the gale, 

Is vocal with the plaintive wail 

Of those, who, else forgotten long, 

Lived in the poet's faithful song, 

And, with the poet's parting breath. 

Whose memory feels a second death. 

The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot. 

That love, true love, should be forgot, 

From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear 

Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier : 

The phantom Knight, his glory fled. 

Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead J 

Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, * 

And shrieks along the battle-plain. 

The Chief, whose antique crownletlong 

Still sparkled in the feudal song, 

Now, from the mountain's misty throne, 

Sees, in the thanedom once his own. 

His ashes undistinguish'd lie, 

His place, his power, his memory die : 

His groans the lonely caverns fill. 

His tears of rage impel the rill : 

All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung, 

Their name unknown, their praise unsung^ 



Scarc.ely the hot assault was staid, 
The terms of truce were scarcely ma<ie, 



30 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When they could spy from Branksome's 

towers, 
The advancing march of martial powers. 
Thicic clouds of dust afar appear'd, 
And trampling steeds were faintly heard ; 
Bright spears, above the columns dun, 
Glanced momentary to the sun ; 
And feudal banners fair display' d 
The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. 



Vails not to tell each hardy clan, 

From the fair Middle Marches came ; 
The Bloody Heart blazed in the van. 

Announcing Douglas, dreaded name ! ^s 
Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, 
Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne * 

Their men in battle-order set ; 
And Swmton laid the lance ii. rest. 
That tamed of yore the sparkiln.g crest 

Of Clarence's Plantagenet.^'' 
Mor list f say what hundreds more, 
From the rich Merse and Lammermore, 
And Tweed's fair borders, to the war. 
Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar, 

And Hepburn's mingled banners come, 
Down the steep mountain glittering far, 

And shouting still, "A Home! a 
Home!''^' 



But angry Dacre rather chose 
In his pavilion to repose. 

VI. 

Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask, 

How these two hostile armies met ? 
Deeming it were no easy task 

To keep the truce which here was set ; 
Where martial spirits, all on fire, 
Breathed only blood and mortal ire.— 
By mutual inroads, mutual blows, 
By habit, and by nation, foes, 

They met on Teviot's strand ; 
They met and sate them mingled dcwr}, 
Without a threat, without a frown, 

As brothers meet in foreign land : 
The hands, the spear that lately grasp'd, 
Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd, 

Were interchanged in greeting dear; 
Visors were raised, and faces shown, 
And many a friend, to friend made knov.-n, 

Partook of social cheer. 
Some drove the jolly bowl about ; 
■ With dice and draughts some chased the 

day ; 
And some, with many a merry shout, 
In riot, revelry, and rout, 

Pursued the foot-ball play. 



Now squire and knight, from Branksome 

sent. 
On many a courteous message Avent ; 
To every chief and Icrd they paid 
Mc-t thanks frr prorr.pt and powerful aid ; 
And told them,— how a truce was made, 
.And how a day of fig'at was ta'cn 
'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine ; 

And how the Ladye pray'd them dear, 
Th:it all would stay the fight to see, 
■ And deign, m love and courtesy, 
T.: taste of B.'ar.kscme cheer. 
Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, 
Were England's no'ole lords forgot. 
Himself, the hrary Seneschal, 
Rode forth, m seemly terms to call 
Those gallant fees to Branksome Hall. 
Accepted Howard, than whom knight 
Was never dubb'd more bold in fight ; 
Nor, when from war and armor free, 
More famed for stately courtesy ; 

♦ Sir David Home of Wedderburn, who was 
slain in the fatal battle of Flodden, left seven 
sons, who were called the Seven Spears of 
Wedderburne. 



Yet, be it known, had bugles blown, 

Or sign of war been seen, 
Those bands, so fair together ranged, 
Those hands, so frankly mterchanged, 

Had dyed with gore the green : 
The merry shout by Teviot-side 
Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide, 

And in the groan of death : 
And whingers t now in friendship bare. 
The social meal to part and share, 

Had found a bloody sheath. 
'Twixt truce and war, such sudden change 
'\Vas not infrequent, nor held strange. 

In the old Border-day : -^ 
But yet on Branksome's towers and town, 
In peaceful merriment, sunk down 

The sun's declining ray. 



The blithesome signs of wassail gay 
Decay'd not with the dying day ; 
Soon through the latticed windo'.vs tall 
Of loftv Branksome's lordly hall, 



t Lajgc loiives. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



31 



Divided square by shafts of stone, 
Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone ; 
Nor less the gilded rafters rang 
With merry harp and beakers' clang : 
And frequent, on the darkening plain, 
Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran, 
As bands, their stragglers to regain. 
Give the shrill watchword of their 
clan ; ^9 
And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim 
Douglas or Dacre's conquering name. 

IX. 

Less frequent heard, and fainter still, 

At length the various clamors died : 
And you might hear, from Branksome hill. 

No sound but Teviot's rushing tide ; 
Save when the changing sentinel 
The challenge of his watch could tell ; 
And save where, through the dark pro- 
found, 
The clanging axe and hammer's sound 

Rung from the nether lawn ; 
For many a busy hand toil'd there. 
Strong pales to shape, and beams to square, 
The lists' dread barriers to prepare 

Against the morrow's dawn. 

X, 

Margaret from hall did soon retreat. 

Despite the Dame's reproving eye ; 
Nor mark'd she, as she left her seat, 

Full many a stifled sigh ; 
For many a noble warrior strove 
To win th: Flower of Teviot's love, 

And many a bold ally. — 
With throbbing head and anxious heart, 
All in her lonely bower apart, 

In broken sleep she lay ; 
By times, from silken couch she rose ; 
While yet th^ banner'd hosts repose, 

She vievv'd the dawning day ; 
Of all the hundreds sunk to rest, 
i-'irst woke the loveliest and the best. 



She gazed upon the inner court. 

Which in the tower's tall shadow lay ; 
Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and 
snort. 

Had rung the livelong yesterday ; 
Now stm as death ; till stalking slow,— 

The jingling spurs announced his tread, 
A stately warrior pass'd below ; 

4iut when he raised his plumed head- 
Bless' d Mary | can W be .?— 



Secure, as if in Ousenani bowers. 
He walks through Branksome' s hostile 
towers, 

With fearless step and free. 
She dared not sign, she dared not speak 
Oh ! if one page's slumbers break. 

His blood the price must pay ! 
Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears, 
Not Margaret's yet more precious tears, 

Shall buy his life a day. 



Yet was his hazard small ; for well 
You may bethink you of the spell 

Of that sly urchin page ; 
This to his lord he did impart. 
And made him seem, by glamour art, 

A k.iigi.. from Hermitage. 
Uncha'.'.enged thus, tiie warder's post. 
The court, unchallenged, thus he cross'd, 

For a'.l the vassalage : 
But O ! what magic's quaint disguise 
Could b'.ind fair Margaret's azure eyesl 

She started from her seat ; 
While with surprise and fear she strove, 
And both cru'd scarcely master love — 

Lord Henry's at her feet. 



Oft have I mused, what purpose bad 
That foul mahcious urchin had 

To brmg this meeting round; 
For happy love's a heavenly sight, 
And by a vile malignant sprite 

In such no joy is found ; 
And oft I've deem'd, perchance he thought 
Their erring passion might have wrought 

Sorrow, and sin, and shame ; 
And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight, 
And to the gentle ladye bright. 

Disgrace, and loss of fame. 
But earthly spirit could not tell 
The heart of them that loved so well. 
True love's the gift which God has given 
To man alone beneath the heaven ; 

It is not fantasy's hot fire 
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly ; 

It liveth not in fierce desire, 

With dead desire it doth not die ; 
It is the secret sympathy, 
The silver link, the silken tie, 
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind. 
In body and in soul can bind. — 
Now leave we Margaret and her Knight, 
To tell you of the approaching fight. 



32 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



XIV. 

Their warning blasts the bugles blew, 

The pipe's shrill port * aroused each clan ; 
In ha«-''e, the deadly strife to view, 

The trooping warriors eager ran : 
Thick round the lists their lances stood, 
Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood ; 
To R'-anksome many a look they threw, 
The combatants' approach to view, 
And bandied many a word of boast, 
About the knight each favor'd most. 

XV. 

Meantime full anxious was the Dame ; 
For now arose disputed claim, 
Of who should fight for Deloraine, 
'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane : 
They 'gan to reckon kin and rent, 
And frowning brow on brow was bent ; 

But yet not long the strife — for, lo ! 
Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, 
Strong, as it seem'd. and free from pain. 

In armor sheath'd from top to toe, 
Appear'd, and craved the combat due. 
The Dame her charm successful knew. 
And the fierce chiefs their cb^ms withdrew. 

XVI. 

When for the lists they sought the plain, 
The stately Ladye's silken rein 

Did noble Howard hold ; 
Unarmed by her side he walk'd. 
And much, in courteous phrase, they talk'd 

Of feats of arms of old. 
Costly his garb — his Flemish ruff 
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff, ■ 

With satin slash'd and lined; 
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, 
His cloak was all of Poland fur, 

His hose with silver twined ; 
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt. 
Hung in a broad and studded belt ; 
Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still 
Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will. 

xvn. 

Behind Lord Howard and the Dame, 
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came, 

Whose foot-cloth swept the ground : 
White was her whimpje, and her veil, 
And her loose locks a chaplet pale 

Of whitest roses bound ; 
The lordly Angus, by her side, 
In courtesy to cheer her tried ; 



* A martial piece of music, adapted to the 
bagpipes. 



Without his aid, her hand in vain 
Had strove to guide her broider'd rein. 
He deem'd she shudder'd at the sight 
Of warriors met for mortal fight ; 
But cause of terror, all unguess'd, 
Was fluttering in her gentle breast. 
When, in their chairs of crimson placed. 
The Dame and she the barriers graced 

XVIII. 

Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch, 
An English knight led forth to view ; 
Scarce rued the boy his present plight, 
So much he longed to see the fight. 
Within the lists, in knightly pride, 
High Home and haughty Dacre ride; 
Their leading staffs of steel they wield, 
As marshals of the mcrtal field ; 
While to each knight rheir c^re assign'd 
Like vantage of the sun and wind. 
The heralds hoarse did loud prcclaini, 
In King and Queen, and Warden's name, 

That none, while lasts the strife, 
Should dare, by look, or sign, or svora, 
Aid to a champion to afford, 

On peril of his life ; 
And not a breath the silence broke. 
Till thus the alternate Herald spoke : 
XIX. 
ENGLISH HERALD. 

" Here standeth Richard of Musgrave^ 

Good knight and true, and freely born, 
Amends from Deloraine to crave. 

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. 
He sayeth, that William of Deloraine 

Is traitor false by Border laws . 
This with his sword he will maintain, 

So help him God, and his good cause ! " 

XX. 

SCOTTISH HERALD. 

" Here standeth Wiliiam of Deloraine, 
Good knight and true, of noble strain, 
Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain, 
Since he bore arms, ne"er so I'd liis coat; 
And that, so help him God above ! 
He will on Musgrave's body prove, 
He lies most foully in his throat." 

LORD DACRE. 

" Forward, brave champions, to the fight I 
Sound trumpets ! " 

LORD HOME. 

" God defend the right ! " 

Then, Teviot ! how thine echoes rang, 
When bugle-sound and trumpet clang 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MLNSTREL, 



Zl 



Let loose the martial foes, 
And in mid list with shield poised high, 
And measured step and wary eye, 

The combatants did close. 



II! would it suit your gentle ear, 

V (," lovely listeners, to hear 

How to the axe the helms did sound, 

And blood pour'd down from many a 

wound ; 
For desperate was the strife and long, 
And either warrior fierce and strong. 
But, were each dame a listening knight, 
I well could tell how warriors hght ! 
For I have seen war's lightning flashing. 
Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, 
Seen through red blood the war-horse 

dashing, 
And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife, 
To yield a step for death or life. — 



'Tis done, 'tis done ! that fatal blow 

Has stretch'd him on the bloody plain I 
He strives to rise — Brave Musgrave, no 1 

Thence never shalt thou rise again ! 
He chokes in blood — some friendly hand 
Undo the visor's barred band, 
Unfix, the gorget's iron clasp, 
And give him room for life to gasp ! — 
O, bootless aid ! — haste, holy Friar, 
Kaste. ere the sinner shall expire ! 
Of all his guilt let him be shriven, 
And smooth his oath from earth to heaven ! 



In haste the holy Friar sped ; — 
His naked foot was dyed with red, 

As through the lists he ran ; 
Unmindful of the shouts on high, 
That hail'd the conqueror's victory, 

He raised the dying man ; 
Loose waved his silver beard and hair. 
As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer ; 
And still the crucifix on high 
He holds before his darkening eye ; 
A.nd still he bends an anxious ear. 
His faltering penitence to hear ; 

Still props him from the bloody sod. 
Still, even when soul and body part. 
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, 

And bids him trust in God ! 
Unheard he prays ;— the death-pang's o'er I 
Richard of Musgrave breathes no more. 



As if exhausted in the fight, 

Or musing o'er the piteous sight, 

The silent victor stands ; 
His beaver did he not unclasp, 
Mark'd not the shouts, felt not the grasp 

Of gratulating hands. 
When lo ! strange cries of wild surprise, 
Mingled with seeming terror, rise 

Among the Scottish bands ; 
And all, amid the throng'd array, 
In panic haste gave open way 
To a half-naked ghastly man, 
Who downward from the cr.stle ran : 
He cross'd the barriers at a bound. 
And wild and haggard look'd around, 

As dizzy, and in pain ; 
And all, upon the armed ground, 

Knew William of Deloraine! 
Each lady sprung from seat with speed; 
Vaulted each marshal from his steed ; 

" And who art thou," they cried, 
" Who hast this battle fought and won ? ''— 
His plumed helm was soon undone — 

" Cranstoun of Teviot-side ! 
For this fair prize I've fought and won." — - 
And to the Ladye led her son. 



Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd. 
And often press'd him to her breast ; 
For, under all her dauntless show, 
Her heart had throbb'd at every blow ; 
Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet, 
Though low he kneeled at her feet. 
Me lists not tell what words were made. 
What Douglas, Home, and Howard, said— 

— For Howard was a generous foe — 
And how the clan united pray'd 

The Ladye would the feud forego, 
And deign to bless the nuptial hour 
Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's Flowtr. 



She look'd to river, look'd to hill, 

Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, 
Then broke her silence stern and still,— 

" Not you, but Fate, has vanquish'd me. 
Their influence kindly stars may shower 
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower. 
For pride is quell'd, and love is free." — 
She took fair Margaret by the hand, 
Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might 
stand, 



34 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave 
she : — 
" As I am true to thee and thine, 
Do thou be true to me and mine ! 

This clasp of love our bond shall be ; 
For this is your betrothing day, 
And all these noble lords shall stay, 

To grace it with their company," 

XXVII. 

All as they left the listed plain, 

Much of the story she did gain ; 

How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine, 

And of his page, and of the Book 

Which from the wounded knight he took ; 

And how he sought her castle high, 

That morn, by help of gramarye ; 

How, in Sir William's armor dight, 

Stolen by his page, while slept the knight. 

He took on him the single fight. 

But half his tale he left unsaid. 

And linger'd till he join'd the maid. — 

Cared not the Ladye to betray 

Her mystic arts in view of day ; 

But well she thought, ere midnight came, 

Of that strange page the pride to tame. 

From his foul hands the Book to save. 

And send it back to Michael's grave. — 

Needs not to tell each tender word 

'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's 

lord; 
Nor how she told of former woes, 
And how her bosom fell and rose, 
While lie and Musgrave bandied blows.— 
Needs not these lovers' joys to tell : 
One day, fair maids, you'll know them well. 

XXVIII. 

William of Deloraine, some chance 
Had waken'd from his death-like trance; 

And tiught that, in the listed plain, 
Another, in his arms and shield, 
Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield, 

Under the name of Deloraine. 
Hence, to the field, unarm'd, he ran, 
And hence his presence scared the cl^n, 
Who held him for some fleeting wraith,* 
And not a man of blood and breath. 

Not much this new ally he loved. 

Yet, when he saw what hap had proved. 
He greeted him right heartilie : 
He would not waken old debate, 
For he was void of rancorous hate, 

Though rude and scant of courtesy ; 



• Tlie spectral apparitiou of a liviag person. 



In raids he spilt but seldom blood, 
Unless when men-at-arms withstood, 
Or, as was meet for deadly feud. 
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow, 
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe ; 
And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now. 
When on dead Musgrave he look'd 
down ; 
Grief darken'd on his rugged brow, 
Though half disguised with a frown ; 
And thus, while sorrow bent his head, 
His foeman's epitaph he made. 



" Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here 1 

I ween my deadly enemy ; 
For, if I slew thy brother dear. 

Thou slew'st a sister's son to me ; 
And when I lay in dungeon dark, 

Of Naworth Castle, long months three, 
Till ransom' d for a thousand mark, 

Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee. 
And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried. 

And thou wert now alive as I, 
No mortal man should us divide, 

Till one, or both of us, did die : 
Yet rest thee God ! for well I know 
I ne'er shall find a nobler foe. 
In all the northern counties here, 
Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear, 
Thou wert the best to follow gear ! 
'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind, . 
To see how thou the chase could'st wind, 
Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way, 
And with the bugle rouse the fray ! 
I'd give the lands of Deloraine, 
Dark Musgrave were alive again.'' 

XXX. 

So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band 
Were bowning back to Cumberland. 
They raised brave Musgrave from the fieldj 
And laid him on his bloody shield; 
On levell'd lances, four and four, 
By turns the noble burden bore. 
Before, at times, upon the gale. 
Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail; 
Behind, four priests, in sable stole, 
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul: 
Around, the horsemen slowly rode ; 
With trailing pikes the spearmen trode; 
And thus the gallant knight they bore, 
Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore ; 
Thence to Holme Coltrame'a lofty nave 
And laid him in his father's grave. 



THE LA V OF THE LAST MI:VSTREL. 



35 



The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the 

song, 
The mimic march of death prolong ; 
Now seems it far, and now a-ncar, 
Now meets, and now eludes tlie ear ; 
Now seems some mountain-side to sweep. 
Now faintly dies in valley deep ; 
Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail. 
Now the sad requiem, loads the gale ; 
Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, 
Rung the full choir in choral stave. 

After due pause, they bade him tell, 
Why he, who touch'd the harp so well. 
Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, 
Wander a poor and thankless soil, 
When the more generous Southern Land 
Would* well requite his skilful hand. 

The Aged Harper, howsoe'er 
His only friend, his harp, was dear. 
Liked not to hear it rank'd so high 
Above his flowing poesy : 
Less liked he still, that scornful jeer 
Misprised the lan'd he loved so dear ; 
High was the sound, as thus again 
The Bard resumed his minstrel strain. 



CANTO SIXTH. 



I. 



BxEATHES there the man, with soul so 

dead. 
Who never to himself hath said. 

This is my own, my native land ! 
W'hose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd. 
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, 

From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
For him no Minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf. 
The wretch, concentrated all in self. 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung. 

II. 

Caledonia ! stern and wild. 

Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 

Land of the mountain and the flood, 

Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 

Can e'er untie the filial band, 

That knits me to thy rujgged strancj \ 



Still, as I viev/ each well-known scene, 
Think what is now, and what I'.ath been, 
Seems as, to me, of all be?l^''?. 
Sole friends thy v/ot/tti and streams \ver« 
left ; 
j And *hus i love them better still, 
Even in extremity of ill. 
By Yarrow's fjtre.nns still let me stray, 
Though none should guide my feeble vray; 
Stili feel the breeze down Ettrick breal;, 
Altiiough it chill my vvither'd cheek ; 
Still lay m3'' head by Teviot Stone, 
Though there, forgotten and alone, 
The Bard may draw his parting groan. 



Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome Hall 
The Minstrels came, at festive call ; 
Trooping they came, from near and far, 
The jovial priests of mirth and war ; 
Alike for feast and fight prepared, 
Battle and banquet both they shared. 
Of late, before each martial clan. 
They blew their death-note in the van 
But now, for every merry mate. 
Rose the portcullis' iron grate ; 
They sound the pipe, they strike the string 
They dance, they revel, and they sing, 
TiU the rude turrets shake and rinsf. 



Me lists not at this tide declare 

The splendor of the spousal rite, 
How muster'd in the chapel fair 

Both maid and matron, squire zxiA 
knight ; 
Me lists not tell of owches rare. 
Of mantles green, and braided hair. 
And kirtlesfurr'd with miniver; 
What plumage waved the altar round, 
How spurs and ringing chainlets sound; 
And hard it were for bard to speak 
The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek j 
That lovely hue which comes and flies, 
As awe and shame alternate rise 1 



Some bards have sung, the Ladye high 

Chapel or altar came not nigh ; 

Nor durst the rights of spousal graco, 

So much she fear'd each holy place. 

False slanders these : — I trust right well 

She wrought not by forbidden spell \^'^ 

For mighty words and signs have power 

O'er sprites in planetary hour : 

Yet scarce I praise th^ir venturous pari,, 

Who tamper witb" such dangerous art. 



SCOl'T'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But this for faithful truth I say, 
The Ladye by the altar stood, 
Of sable velvet her array, 

And on her head a crimson hood, 
With pearls enibroider'd and entwined, 
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined; 
A merlin sat upon her wrist ^^ 
Held by a leash of silken twist. 

VI. 

The spousal rites were ended soon : 
'Twas now the merry hour of noon, 
And in the lofty arched hall 
Was spread the gorgeous festival. 
Steward and squire, with heedful haste, 
Marshall'd the rank of every guest ; 
Pages, with ready blade, were there, 
Ths mighty meal to carve and share . 
O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane, 
And princely peacock's gilded train,-*^ 
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave, 
And cygnet from St. Mary's wave ; * 
O'er ptarmigan and venison. 
The priest had spoke his benison. 
Then rose the riot and the dm. 
Above , beneath, without, within I 
For, from the lofty balcony, 
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery : 
Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff'd, 
Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd ; 
Whisper'd young knights, in tone more 

mild, 
To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. 
The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam, 
The clamor join'd with whistling scream, 
And fiapp'd their wings, and shook their 

bells, 
In concert with the stag-hound's yells. 
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, 
From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine 
Their tasks the busy sewers ply 
And all is mirth and revelry. 

VII, 

The Goblin Page, omitting still 

No opportunity of ill, 

Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, 

To rouse debate and jealousy ; 

Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, 

By nature fierce, and warm with wine, 

And now in humor highly cross'd, 

About some steeds his band had lost. 

High words to words succeeding still, 

Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill ; 43 



* Flights cf wild swans are often seen on 
St. Mary's Lake, which is at the liead of the 
Yarrow. 



A hot and hardy Rutherford, 

Whom men tailed Dickon Draw-th.e^ 

Sword. 
He took it on tlie page's saye, 
Hunthill had driven these steeds away. 
Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rccCj 
The kindling discord to compose : 
Stern Rutherford right little said, 
But bit his glove,'*^ and shook his head. -»• 
A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, 
Stout Conrad, cold, anddrench'd in blccd^ 
His bosom gored with many a wound, 
Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found ; 
Unknown the manner of his death, 
Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath j 
But ever from that time, 'twas said, 
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. 

VIII. 

The dwarf, who fear'dhis master's eye 

Might his foul treachery espie, 

Now sought the castle buttery, 

Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 

Revell'd as merrily and well 

As those that sat in lordly selle. 

Wat Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise 

The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Bracs ; t 

And he, as by his breeding bound. 

To Howard's merry-men sent it round. 

To quit them, on the English side. 

Red Roland Fovster loudly cried, 

" A deep carouse to yon fair bride 1 '' — 

At every pledge, from vat and pail, 

Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown ale; 

While shout the riders every one ; 

Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their clan. 

Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, 

When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en. 



The wily page, with vengeful thought, 

Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew. 
And swore, it should be dearly bought 

That ever he the arrow drew. 
First, he the yeoman did molest, 
With bitter gibe and taunting jest ; 
Told, how he fled at Solway strife, 
And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his wife ; 
Then, shunning still his powerful arm, 
At unawares he wrought him harm ; 



t The person bearing this redoubtable nom 
de guerre was an Elliott, and resided at Thor- 
ieshope, in Liddesdale. Ha occurs in the li&t 
of Border riders, in 1597. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



11 



From trencher stole his choicest cheer, 
Dash'd from his hps his can of beer ; 
Then, to his knee sly creeping on, 
With bodkin pierced him to the bone : 
The venom'd wound, and festering joint, . 
Long after rued that bodkin's point. 
The startled yeoman swore and spurn'd, 
And board and flagons overturn'd. 
Riot and clamor wild began ; 
Back to the hall the Urchin ran ; 
Took in a darkling nook his post, 
And grinn'd, and mutter'd, "Lost! lost! 
lost ! " 

X. 

By this, the Dame, lest farther fray 
Should mar the concord of the day, 
Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay. 
And first stept forth old Albert Grasme, 
Th3 Minstrel of that ancient name : '■^ 
Was none who struck the harp so well. 
Within the Land Debateable. 
Well friended, too, his hardy kin, 
Whoever lost, were sure to win ; [broth. 
They sought the beeves that made their 
In Scotland and in England both. 
In homely gu.se, as nature bade. 
His simple song the Borderer said. 

XI. 

ALBERT GR.EME. 

It was an English ladye bright, 

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,*) 
And she would marry a Scottish knight. 

For Love will still be lord of all. 
Blithely they saw the rising sun. 

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; 
But they were sad ere day was done, 

Though Love was still the lord of all. 
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine. 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall ; 
Her brother gave but a flask of wine, 

For ire that Love was lord of all. 
For she had lands, both meadow and lea. 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall, 
And he swore her death, ere he would see 

A Scottish knight the lord of all ! 

XII. 

That wine she had not tasted well, 
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) 

When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell. 
For L'jve was LtiU the lord of all I 



♦This burden is from an old .Scottish song. 



He pierced her brother to the heart, 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall : — 
So perish all woi:ld true love part. 

That Love may still be lord of all ! 
And then he took the cross divine, 

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall,) 
And died for her sake in Palestine, 

So Love was still the lord of all. 
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, 

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) 
Pray for their souls who died for love, 

For Love shall still be lord of all I 



Ao ended Albert's simple lay, 

Arose a bard of loftier port ; 
For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay, 

Renown 'd in haughty Henry's court: 
There rung thy harp, unrivall'd long, 
Fitztraver of the silver song ! 

The gentle Surrey loved his lyre — 

Who has not heard of Surrey's fam« ? ^ 

His was the hero's soul of fire, 

And his the bard's immortal name, 
And his was love, exalted high 
By all the glow of chivalry 



They sought, together, climes afar, 

And oft, within some olive grove, 
When even came with twinkling star, 

They sung of Surrey's absent love. 
His step the Italian peasant stay'd, 

And deem'd, that spirits from on high. 
Round where some hermit saint was laia, 

Were breathing heavenly melody ; 
So sweet did harp and voice combine, 
To praise the name of Geraldine, 



Fitztraver ! what tongue may say 
The pangs thy faithful bosom knew, 

When Surrey, of the deathless lay. 
Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew? 

Regardless of the tyrant's frown. 

His harp call'd wrath and vengeance down. 

He left, for Naworth's iron towers, 

Windsor's green glades, and courtly bovf* 
ers, 

And faithful to his patron's name. 

With Howard still Fitztraver came ; 

Lord WilUam's foremost favorite he, 

And chief of all Ills minstrelsy. 



38 



SCOTT'S To E TIC A L WORKS. 



XVI. 
FITZTRAVER. 

Twas All-souls' eve, and Surrey's heart 

beat high ; 
He heard the midnight bell with anxious 

start, 
Which told the mystic hour, approaching 

When wise Cornelius promised, by his art, 
To show to him the ladye of his heart, 
Albeit betwixt them roar'd the ocean 
grim; 
Yet so the sage had hight to play his part, 
That he should see her form in life and 
limb, 
And mark, if still she loved, and still she 
thought of him, 

XVII. 

Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye, 

To which the wizard led the gallant 
Knight, 
Save that before a mirror, huge and high, 

A hallow'd taper shed a glimmering^light 
On mystic implements of magic might ; 

On cross, and character, and tahsman, 
And almagest, and altar, nothing bright: 

For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan, 
As watchlight by the bed of some departing 
man. 

XVIII. 

But soon, within that mirror huge and high, 

Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam ; 
And forms upon its breast the Earl 'gan spy, 

Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream, 
Till, slow arranging, and defined, they seem 

To form a lordly and a lofty room, 
Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam, 

Placed by a couch of Agra's silken ioom, 
And part by moonshine pale, and part was 
hid in gloom. 

XIX. 

Fair all the pageant — but how passing fair 
The slender form, which lay on couch of 
Ind! 
O'er her white bosom stray'd her hazel hair. 
Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she 
pined ; 
All in her night-robe loose she lay re- 
clined, 
And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine. 
Some strain that seem'd her inmost soul to 
find ; — 
That favor'd strain was Surrey's raptured 
line, [aldine ! 

That fair and lovely form, the Lady Ger- 



Slow roll'd the clouds upon the lovely form, 

And swept the goodly vision all away — 
So royal envy roll'd the murky storm 

O'er my beloved Master's glorious day. 
Thou, jealous, ruthless tyrant ! Heaven 
repay 
On thee, and on thy children's latest line, 
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway. 
The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd 
shrine. 
The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of 
Geraldine I 



Both Scots and Southern chiefs prolong 
Applauses of Fitztraver's song ; 
These hated Henry's name as death, 
And those still held the ancient faith.— 
Then, from his seat, with lofty air. 
Rose Harold, bard of brave St. Clair ; 
St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home, 
Had with that lord to battle come. 
Harold was born where restless seas 
Howl round the storm-swept Orcades ; 
Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway 
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay ; — 
Still nods their palace to its fall. 
Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall ! — 
Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave, 
As if grim Odin rode her wave ; 
And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale^ 
And throbbing heart, the struggling sail ; 
For all of wonderful and wild 
Had rapture for the lonely child. 



And much of wild and wonaerful 
In the.^e rude isles might fancy cull ; 
For thither came, in times afar, 
b tern Lochlin's sons of roving war. 
The Norsemen, train'd to spoil and blood, 
S kill' d to prepare the raven's food ; 
Kings of the main their leaders brave, 
Their barks the dragons of the wave. 
And there, in many a stormy vale. 
The Scald had t&ld his wondrous tale ; 
And many a Runic column high 
Had v/itness'd grim idolatry. 
And thus had Harold, in his youth, 
Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth,— 
Of that Sea-Snake* tremendous curl'd, 
Whose monstrous circle girds the world ; 

* For the Sea-Snake, see the " Edda," a 
Mallet's *' Northern Antiquities," p. 445. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



39 



Of those dread Maids * whose hideous yell 
Maddens the battle's bloody swell ; 
Of Chiefs, who, guided through the gloom 
By the pale death-lights of the tomb, 
Ransack'd the graves of warriors old, 
Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' 

hold, 
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms, 
And bade the dead arise to arms ! 
With war and wonder all on flame, 
To Roslm's bowers yoang Harold came, 
Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree. 
He Jearn'd a milder minstrelsy ; 
Vet something of the Northern spell 
Mix'd with the softer numbers well. 



HAROLD. 

O listen, listen, ladies gay ! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle : 

— ** Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew ! 

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay, 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

* The blackening wave is edged witli white : 
To inch f and rock the sea-mews fly ; 

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
Whose screams forebode that wreck is 
nigli. 

" Last night the gifted Seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay ; 

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? " — 

" 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
Tchnight at Roslin leads the ball, 

But that my ladye-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall, 

* 'Tis not because the ring they ride. 

And Lindesay at the ring rides well. 
But that my sire the wine will chide. 
If 'tis not fiU'd by Rosabelle."— 

O'er Roslin all that dreary night 

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 

•Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
And redder than the bright moon-beam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock. 
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen. 



* The Valkyrior or Scandinavian Fates, or 
Fatal Sisters. 
t Inch^ an island. 



'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud. 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, 

Each Baron, for a sable shroud. 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Seem'd all on fire, within, around, 

Deep sacristy and altar's pale. 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And ghmmer'd all the dead men's mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high. 
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high St. Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! 

And each St. Clair was buried there, 

With candle, with book, and with knell ; 

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds 
sung. 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

XXIV. 

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, 

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd 
hall, 
Though, long before the sinking day, 

A wondrous shade involved them all : 
It was not eddying mist or fog, 
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog ; 

Of no eclipse had sages told ; 
And yet, as it came on apace. 
Each one could scarce his neighbor's face, 

Could scarce his own stretch'd hand be- 
hold. 
A secret horror check'd the feast ; 
And chill'd the soul of every guest ; 
Even the high Dame stood half aghast, 
She knew some evil on the blast. 
The elfish page fell to the ground, 
And, shuddering, mutter'd, "' Found ! found 1 
found ! " 

XXV. 

Then sudden, through the darken'd air, 

A flash of lightning came ; 
So broad, so bright, so red the glare, 

The castle seem'd on flame. 
Glanced every rafter of the hall, 
Glanced every shield upon the wall ; 
Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone* 
Were instant seen, and instant gone : 



40 



SCO TT'S FOE TIC A L WORKS. 



Full through the guests' bedazzled band 
Resistless flash'd the levin-brand, 
And fill'd the hall with smouidering smoke, 
As on the elfish paga it broke. 

It broke, with thunder long and loud, 
Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the proud,— 

From sea to sea the larum rung ; 
On Berwick wall, and at Carhsle withal. 
To arms the s'.artled warders sprung : 
When ended was the dreadful roar, 
,The elfish dwarf v.'as seen no more. 

XXVI. 

Some heard a voicsin Branksome Hall, 
Some saw a sight, not seen by all ; 
That dreadful voice was heard by some, 
Cry, with loud • summ'ons, " Gylbin, 

COME 1 " 

And on the spo«". where burst the brand. 
Just where the page had flung him 
down, 

Some saw an arm, and some a hand. 
And some the waving of a gown. 
The guests in silence pray'd and shook. 
And terror dimm'd each lofty look. 
But none of all the astonish'd train 
Was so dismay'd as Deloraine , 
His blood did freeze, his bram did burn, 
'Twas fear'd his mind would ne'er return ; 

For he was speechless, ghastly, wan. 

Like hmi of whom the story ran. 

Who spoke the spectre-homid in Man. 
At length, by fits, he darkly told, 
With broken hint, :\nd shuddering cold — 

That he had seen, right certamly, 
A shape with amice wrapp'd around, 
With a wrought Spanish baldric bouftd, 

Like pilgrim from beyond the sea , 
And knew— but how it matter' d not — 
It was the wizard, Michael Scott. 

XXVII, 

The anxious crowd, with horror pale. 
All trembnng heard the wondrous tale ; 
No sound was made, no word was spol^e, 
Till noble Angus silence broke ; 

And he a solemn sacred plight 
Did to St. Bride of Douglas make, 
That he a pilgrimage would take 
>o Melrose Abbey, \ox tne sake 
Of Michael's restless sprite. 
Then each, to ease his troubled breast. 
To some bless'd saint his prayers address'd : 
Some to St. Modan made their vows, 
Some to St. Mary of the Lowe*. 



Some to the Holy Rood of I-isle, 

Some to our Ladye of the Isle ; 

Each did his patron witness make, 

That he such pilgrimage would take, 

And monks should sing, and bells should 

toll, 
All for the weal of Michael's soul. 
While vows were ta'en, and prayers v.'^re 

pray'd, 
'Tis said the noble dame, dismay'd, 
Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid. 

XXVIII. 

Nought of the bridal will I tell, 
Which after in short space befell ; 
Nor how brave sons and daughters fair 
Bless'd Teviot's Flower, and Cranstf-'<u:i's 

heir : 
After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain 
To wake the note of mirth again. 
More meet it were to mark the day 

Of penitence and prayer divine. 
When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array, 

Sought Melrose' holy shrine, 

XXIX. 

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, 
And arms enfolded on his breast. 

Did every pilgrim go ; 
The standers-by might hear uneath,* 
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breatii, 

Through all the lengthen'd row . 
No lordly look, nor martial stride, 
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride, 

Forgotten their renown ; 
Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide 
To the high altar's hallow'd side. 

And there they knelt them down : 
Above the suppliant chieftains wave 
The banners of departed brave ; 
Beneath the letter'd stones were laid 
The ashes of their fathers dead ; 
From many a garnish'd niche a'ound, 
Stern saints and tortured inartyis frown'a 

XXX. 

And slow up the dim aisle afar, 
With sable cowl and scapular, 
And snow-white stoles, in orde" due, 
The holy Fathers, two and two, 

In long procession came ; 
Taper, and host, and book they bare, 
And holy banner, flourish'd fair 

With the Rcdeemei's name. 
Above the prostrate pilgrim band 
The mitred Abbot stretch'd his hand, 



Scarcely hear. 



THE LA V OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 



41 



And bless'd them as they kneel'd ; 

With holy cross he sign'd tliem all, 

And pray'd they might be sage in hall, 
And fortunate in field. 

Tlien mass was sung, and prayers were 
said, 

And solemn requiem for the dead ; 

And beils toll'd out their mighty peal, 

For the departed spirit's weal; 

And ever in the office close 

The hymn of intercession rose; 

And far the echoing aisles prolong 

The awful burthen of the song, — 
Dies ir/e, dies illa, 
solvet s^clum in favilla ; 

While the pealing organ rung. 
Were it meet with sacred strain 
To close my lay, so light and vain, 

Thus the holy Fathers sung : — 



HYMN FOR THE DEAD. 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
When heaven and earth shall pass away. 
What power shall be the sinner's stay ? 
How shall he meet that dreadful day .'' 
When, shnvelhng like a parched scroll, 
The flammg heavens together roll ; 
When louder yet, and yet more dread. 
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead, 
Oh ! on that day, that wrathful day, 
When man to judgment vrakes from clay, 



Be Thou the trembling sinner's r.tay, 
Though heaven and earth shall pass away. 



Hush'd is the harp — the Minstrel gone. 
And did he wander forth alone .? 
Alone, in indigence and age, 
To linger out his pilgrimage? 
No ; close beneath proud Newark's tower, 
Arose the Minstrei's iowly bo.ver; 
A simple hut ; but ther was -:fcen 
The little garden hedged with green. 
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 
There shelter'd wanderers, by the blaze, 
Oft heard th: tal: of ( ther d?ys , 
For much h? loved to ■ pe his door, 
And give the aid h begg'd tpfore 
So pass'd th: winter's day; but still. 
When summer smiled on sv.'eet Bowhill, 
And July's eve, with balmy-breath, 
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath ; 
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, 
And corn was green on Carterhaugh, 
And flourish'd, broad, Blackandro's oak, 
The aged Harper's soul awoke ! 
Then would he sing achievements high, 
And circumstance of chivalry. 
Till the rapt traveller would stay, 
Forgetful of the closing day ; 
And noble youths, the strain to hear, 
Forsook the hunting of the deer ; 
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along, 
Bore burden to the Minstrel's son& v 



MARMION: 

A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD. 

IN SIX CANTOS. 



Alas! that Scottish maid should sing 
The combat where her lover fell ! 

That Scottish Bard should wake the string. 
The triumph of our foes to tell ! 

Lkyden. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLB 



HENRY LORD MONTAGU, ETC., ETC., ETC. 



THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY 



THE AUTHOR. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The pffsffj story turns upon the private udventures of a fictitious character ; but ii 
sailed a Tale of Flodden Field^ because the hero'' s fate is connected with that memcralli 
defeat, a-nd the causes which led to it. The design of the Atiihor tvas, if fossible, A 
apprise kis readers, at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare the7n for the 
mar>.r\?rs of the Age in which it is laid. Any Historical PJarrative, far 7nore an 
attemjil at Epic composition, exceeded his plan of a Romantic Talc ; yet he may he per- 
mitted to hope, from the popularity of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that an 
attempt to paifit the manners of the feudal times, upon a broader scale, and in the 
course of a more interestir-g story, will not be tinacceptatle to the Public. 

The Poem opens abotd the commcnceme?it of August, and concludes with ike defeat 
ef Flodden, ()th September, 1513. 

Ashestiel, 1808. 
(42) 



MARMION. 43 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

What I have to say respecting this Poem may be briefly told. In the Introdnction to the 
" Lay of the Last Minstrel," I have mentioned the circumstances, so far as my literary life is 
concerned, -which induced me to resign the active pursuit of an honorable profession, for the 
more precarious resources of literature. My appointment to the Sheriffdom of Selkirk called 
for a change of residence. I left, therefore, the pleasant cottage I had upon the side of the Esk, 
for the '• pleasanter banks of the Tweed," in order to comply with the law, which requires that 
the Sheriff shall be resident, at least during a certain number of months, within his jurisdiction. 
We found a delightful retirement, by my becoming the tenant of my intimate friend and cousin. 
german, Colonel Russell, in his mansion of Ashestiel, which was unoccupied, during his absence 
on military service in India. The house was adequate to our accommodation, and the exercise 
of a limited hospitality. The situation is uncommonly beautiful, by the side of a fine river, 
whose streams are there very favorable for angling, surrounded by the remains of natural woods, 
and by hills abounding in game. In point of society, according to the heartfelt phrase of Scrip- 
ture, we dwelt " amongst our own people ; " and as the distance from the metropolis was only 
thirty miles, we were not out of reach of our Edinburgh friends, m which city we sp' 't the terms 
of the summer and winter Sessions of the Court, that is, five or six months in the >^-.r. 

An important circumstance had, about the same time, taken place in my life. Hopes had 
been held out to me from an influential quarter, of a nature to relieve me from the anxiety which 
I must have otherwise felt, as one upon the precarious tenure of whose own life rested the prin- 
cipal prospects of his family, and especially as one who had necessarily some dependence upo« 
the favor of the public, which is proverbially capric'ous ; though .t is but justice to add, that, in 
my own case, I have not found it so. Mr. Pitt had expressed a wish to my personal friend, the 
Right Honorable William Dundas, now Lord Clerk Register of Scotland^ that sorne fitting 
opportunity should be taken to be of service to me ; and as my views and wishes pointed to a 
future rather than an immediate provision, an opportunity of accomplishing this was soon found. 
One of the Principal Clerks of Session, as they are called (official persons who occupy an im- 
portant and responsible situation, and enjoy a considerable income), who had served upwards of 
thirty years, felt himself, from age, and the infirmity of deafness with which it was accompanied, 
desirous of retiring from his official situation. As the law then stood, such official persons were 
entitled to bargain with their successors, either for a sum of money, which was usually a con- 
siderable one, or for an interest in the emoluments of the officj during their life. My prede- 
cessor, whose services had been unusually meritorious, stipulated for the emoluments of his 
office during his life, while I should enjoy the survivorship, on tht, condition that I discharged 
the duties of the office in the mean time. Mr. Pitt, howiver, having died in the interval, his 
administration was dissolved, and was succeeded bythit known by the name of the Fox and 
Grenville Ministry. My affair was so far completed, that my i:ommission lay in the office sub- 
scribed by his Majesty; but, from hurry or mistake, the interest of my predecessor was not 
expressed in it, as had been usual in such cases. Althcujh, therefore, it only required payment 
of the fees, I could not in honor take out the commission in the present state, since in the event 
of my dying before him, the gentleman whom I succeeded must have lost the vested interest 
which he had stipulated to retain. I had the honor of an interview with Earl Spencer on the 
subject, and he, in the most handsome manner, gave directions that the commission should issue 
as originally intended ; adding, that the matter having received the royal assent, he regarded 
only as a claim of justice what he would have willingly done as an act of favor. I never saw 
Mr. Fox on this, or on any other occasion, and never made any apiplication to him, conceiving 
that in doing so I might have been supposed to express political opinions contrary to those which^ 
I had always professed. In his private capacity, there is no man to whom I would have been' 
Biore proud to owe an obligation, had I been so distinguished. 

By this arrangement I obtained the survivorship of an office, the emoluments of which were 
fully adequate to my wishes; and as the law respecting the mode oi providing for superannuated 
officers was, about five or six years after, altered from that which admitted the arrangement of 
assistant and successor, my colleague very handsomely took the opportunity of the alteration, to 
accept of the retiring annuity provided in such cases, and admitted me to the full benefit of the 
office. 

But although the certainty of succeeding to a considerable income, at the lime I obtained it, 
seemed to assure me of a quiet harbor in my old age, I did not escape my share of inconvenience 
from the contrary tides and currents by which we are so often encountered in our journey through 
life. Indeed the publication of my next poetical attempt was prematurely accelerated, from on« 
of those unpleasant accidents which can neither be foreseen nor avoided. 



scorrs poetical works. 



I had formed the prudent resolution to endeavor to bestow a little more labor than I had ye« 
done on my productions, and to be "in no hurry again to announce myself as a candidate for lit- 
erary fnme. Accordingly, particular passages of a poem, which was finally called " Marmion," 
were labored with a good deal of care by one by whom much care was seldom bestowed. 
Whether the work was worth the labor or noti I am no competent judge ; but I maybe permitted 
to say, that the period of its composition was a very happy one in my life ; so much so, that I 
remember witli pleasure, at this moment, some of the spots in which particular passages were 
composed. It is probably owing to this, that the Introductions to the several Cantos assumed 
tfie form of familiar epistles to my intimate friends, in which I alluded, perhaps more than was 
necessary or graceful, to my domestic occupations and amusements — a loquacity which maybe 
excused by those who remember that I was still young, light-headed, and happy, and that '*out 
ef the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." 

The misfortunes of a near relation and friend, which happened at this time, led me to alter 
my prudent determination, which had been, to use great precaution in sending this poem into the 
world ; and made It convenient at least, if not absolutely necessary, to hasten its publication. 
The publishers of *' The Lay of the Last Minstrel," emboldened by the success of that poem, 
willingly offered a thousand pounds for " Marmion." The transaction, being no secret, afforded 
Lord Byron, who was then at general war with all who blacked paper, an apology for including 
me In his satire, entitled " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." I never could conceive how 
an arrangement between an author and his publishers, if satisfactory to the persons concerned, 
could afford matter of censure to any third party. I had taken no unusual or ungenerous means 
of enhancing the value of my merchandise — I had never higgled a moment about the bargain, 
but accepted at once what I considered the handsome offer of my publishers. These gentlemen, 
at least, were not of opinion that they had been taken advantage of in the transaction, which, 
indeed, was one of their own framing ; on the contrary, the sale of the Poem was so far beyond 
their expectation, as to induce them "to supply the Author's cellars with what is always an accept- 
able present to a young Scottish housekeeper, namely, a hogshead of excellent claret. 

The Poem was finished in too much haste, to allow me an opportunity of softening down, if 
not removing, some of its most prominent defects. The nature of Marmion's guilt, although 
similar instances were found, and might be quoted, as existing in feudal times, was nevertheless 
not sufficiently peculiar to be indicative of the character of the period, forgery being the crime 
of a commercial, rather than of a proud and warlike age. This gross defect ought to have been 
remedied or palliated. Yet I suffered the tree to lie as it had fallen. I remember my friend, 
Dr. Leyden, then in the East, wrote me a furious remonstrance on the subject. _ I have, never- 
theless, always been of opinion, that corrections, however in themselves judicious, have a bad 
effect— after publication. An author is never so decidedly condemned as on his own confession, 
and may long find apologists and partisans, until he gives up his own cause. I was not, there 
fore, inclined to afford matter for censure out of my own admissions; and, by good fortune, the 
novelty of the subject, and. if I may so say, some force and vivacity of description, were allowed 
to atone for many imperfections. Thus the second experiment on the public patience, generally 
the most perilous,— for the public are then most apt to judge with rigor, what in the first in- 
stance they had received, perhaps, with imprudent generosity,— was In my case decidedly suc- 
cessful. I had the good fortune to pass this ordeal favorably, and the return of salesbefore me 
makes the copies amount to thirty-six thousand printed between 1808 and 1825, besides a con- 
siderable sale since that period. I shall here pause upon the subject of " Marmion," and, in a 
few prefatory words to "The Lady of the Lake," the last poem of mine which obtained eminent 
success, I will continue the task which I have imposed on myself respecting the origin oi sri 
productions. 



Ae»oT£fORO, Aprils iSjo. 



MARMION. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST. 



WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ. 

Ashesticl, Ettrick Fo7-esi. 

November's sky is chill and drear, 
Novembtr's leaf is red and sear: 
Late, gazing down the steepy linn, 
That hems our little garden in, 
Low in its dark and narrow glen, 
You scarce the rivulet might ken, 
So thick the tangled greenwood grew, 
So feeble trill'd the streamlet through : 
Now murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen 
Through bush and brier, no longer green, 
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, 
Brawls ov3r rock and wild cascade. 
And, foammg brown with doubled speed, 
Humes it.s waters .o the Tweed. 

No longer Autumn's glowing red 
Upon our Foiest hills is shed ; 
No more, oeneath tha evening beam, 
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam ; 
Away hath pass'd the healher-bell 
That bloom'd se rich on Needpath-fell ; 
Sallow his brow, and rus^sct bare 
Are now the sistei-h.ights of Yair. 
The sheep, befox j the f .r.chlr.g heaven, 
To shelter"d dale and c.cwn are driven, 
Where yet some tadtd hcibage pines, 
And yet a witerv sunbeam slunes : 
In meek despcncer.cv '•"hey eye 
The wither d fwaidand wintry sky, 
And far beneath fr.eir summer hill, 
Stray sadly t?y C-ier.kinnon's rill : 
The shepherd fhifts his mantle's fold, 
And wraps; him closer from the cold ; 
His dcgs no ir.f rry circles wheel. 
But, shiverirg, follow at his heel ; 
A cowering gkrnce they often cast, 
As det-pcr moans the gathering blast. 

1*4 y imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, 
A^ best tefitsthe mountain child, 
Feel the sad influence of the hour. 
And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower; 
Ti,eir summer gambols tell, and mourn, 
And anxious ask, — Will spring return. 
And birds and lambs again be gay. 
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray ? 



Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower 
Again shall paint your summer bower ; 
Again the hawthorn shall supply 
The garlands you delight to tie ; 
The lambs upon the lea shall bound, 
The wild birds carol to the round, 
And while you frolic light as they, 
Too short shall seem the summer dafo 

To mute and to material things 
New life revolving summer brings ; 
The genial call dead Nature hears, 
And in her glory reappears. 
But oh! my country's wintry state 
What second spring shall renovate? 
What powerful call shall bid arise 
The buried warlike and the wise ; 
The mind that thr ught for Britain's weal 
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel ? 
The vernal sun new life bestows 
Even on the meanest flower that blows, 
But vainly, vainly may he shine, 
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine , 
And vainly pierce the solemn glocm, 
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb 1 

Deep graved In every British heart, 
O never let those names depart I 
Say to your sons, — Lo, here his grave, 
Who victor died on Gadite wave ; * 
To him, as to the burning levin, 
Short, bright, resistless course was given. 
Where'er his country's foes were found. 
Was heard the fated thunder s sound, 
I'ill burst the bolt on yondtr shore, 
Roll'd, blazed, destroy 'd, — and was no 
more. 

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worthj 
Who bade the ccnquert.r go forth, 
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war 
On Egypt, Hafnia,t Trafalgar; 
Who, born to guide such high emprize, 
For Britain's weal was early wise ; 
Alas ! to whom the A.lmighty gave, 
For Britain's sins, an early grave I 



* Nelson. Gadite wavi, sea of Cadisf, oi 
Gades. t Copenhagen. 

(45) 



46 



scorrs poetical works. 



His worth, who, in his mightiest hour, 
A bauble l.cld tlie pride of power, 
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, 
And served his Albion for herself ; 
Who, when the frantic crowd amain 
Strain' d at subjection's bursting rein. 
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd 
The pride, he would not crush, restrain'd, 
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause, 
And brought the freeman's arm, to aid the 
freeman's laws. 

Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of 

power, 
A watchman on the lonely tower, 
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land. 
When fraud or danger were at hand ; 
By thee, as by the beacon-light, 
Our pilots had kept course aright ; 
As some proud column, though alone, 
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering 

throne : 
Now is the stately column broke. 
The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke. 
The trumpet's silver sound is still, 
The warder silent on the hill ! 

Oh think, how to his latest day. 
When Death, just hovering, claim'd his 

prey, 
With Palinure's unalter'd mood, 
Firm at his dangerous post he stood ; 
Each call for needful rest repell'd, 
With dying hand the rudder held, 
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, 
The steerage of tlie realm gave way ! 
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains. 
One unpolluted church rem.ains. 
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound", 
But still, upon the hallow'd day. 
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ; 
While faith and civil peace arc dear, 
Grace this cold marble with a tear, — 
He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies here ! 

Nor yet suppress .the generous sigh. 
Because liis rival slumbers nigh ; 
Nor be thy rcqidescat dumb. 
Lest it bs said o'er Fox's tomb. 
For talents mourn, untnnely lost, 
When best employ'd, and wanted most ; 
Mourn genuis high, and lore profound. 
And wit that loved to play, not wound ; 
And all the reasoning powers divine, 
To penetrate, rcsolvo, combine ; 
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow, — 
They sleep with him who sleeps below : 



And, if thou mourn'st they could not sare 

From error him who owns this grave, 

Be every harsher thought suppress'd, 

And sacred be the last long rest. 

Herc^ where the end of earthly things 

Lays heroes, pacriots, bards, and kings ; 

Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, 

Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung | 

Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 

The distant notes of holy song, 

As if some angel spoke agen, 

" All peace on earth, good-will to men ; '* 

If ever from an English heart, 

O here let prejudice depart. 

And, partial feeling cast aside, 

Record, that Fox a Briton died! 

When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke, 

And Austria bent, and Prussia broke. 

And the firm Russian's purpose brave, 

Was barter'd by a timorous slave, 

Even then dishonor's peace he spurn'd. 

The sullied olive-branch return'd, 

Stood for his country's glory fast, 

And nail'd her colors to the mast ! 

Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave 

A portion in this honor'd grave. 

And ne'er held marble in its trust 

Of two such wondrous men the dust. 



With more than mortal powers endow'd, 
How high they soar'd above the crowd 1 
Theirs was no common party race, 
Jostling by dark intrigue for place ; 
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 
Shook realms and nations in its jar ; 
Beneath each banner proud to stand, 
Look'd up the noblest of the land, 
Till through the British world were known. 
The names of Pitt and Fox alone. 
Spells of such force no wizard grave 
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave. 
Though his could drain the ocean dry, 
And force the planets from the sky. 
These spells are spent, and, spent with 

these. 
The wine of life is on the lees, 
Genius, and taste, and talent gone. 
Forever tomb'd beneath the stone. 
Where — taming thought to human pride 1— 
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier _; 
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound, 
And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 
The solemn echo seems to cry, — 
" Here let their discord with them (Kb. 



M ARM JON. 



47 



Speak not for those a separate doom, 
Whom Fate made Brothers in the tomb ; 
But search the land of Uvhig men, 
Where wilt thou find their like agen ? " 

Rest, ardent Spirits ! till the cries 
Of dying Nature bid you rise ; 
Not even your Britain's groans can pierce 
The leaden silence of your hearse ; 
Then, O, how impotent and vain 
This grateful tributary strain ! 
Though not unmark'd from northern clime, 
Ye lieard the Border Mmstrel's rhyme : 
His Gothic harp has o'er you rung ; 
The Bard you deign'd to praise, your death- 

• less names has sung. 

Stay yet, illusion, stay a while. 
My wilder'd fancy still beguile ! 
From this high theme how can I part, 
Ere half unloaded is my heart ! 
For all the tec..-s e'er sorrow drew. 
And all the raptures fancy knew, 
And all the keener rusli of blood. 
That throbs through bard in bard-like 

mood, 
Were here a tribute mean and low, 
Though all thuir mingled streams could 

How — 
Woe, wonder, and sensation high, 
in one spring-tide of ecstasy !— 
It will not be — it may not last — 
The vision of enchantment's past: 
Like frostwork in the morning ray, 
The fancied fabric melts away ; 
Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone. 
And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone ; 
And, lingering last, deception dear, 
The choir's high sounds die on my ear. 
Now slow return the lonely down. 
The silent pastures bleak and brown, 
The farm begirt with co]3sewood wild. 
The gambols of each frolic child, 
Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 
Of Tweed's dark v/aters rushing on. 

Prompt on unequal tasks to run, 
Thus Nature disciplines her son : 
Mecter, she says, for me to stray, 
And waste the solitary day. 
In plucking from yon fen the reed, 
And watch it fioatmg down the Tweed ; 
Or idly list the shrilling lay. 
With which the milkmaid cheers her way, 
Marking its cadence rise and fail, 
As from the field, beneath her pail. 
She trips it down the uneven d^le : 
Meeter forme, by yonder cairn, 
The ancient shepherd's tale to learn ; 



Though oft he stop in rustic fear. 
Lest his old legends tire the ear 
Of one, who, in his simple mind. 
May boast of book-learn'd taste refined. 

But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell, 
(For few have read romance so well). 
How still the legendary lay 
O'er poet's bosom holds its sway ; 
How on the ancient minstrel strain 
Time lays his palsied hand in vain ; 
And how our hearts at doughty deeds, 
By warriors wrought in steely weeds, 
Still throb for fear and pity's sake ; 
As when the champion of the Lake 
Enters Morgana's fated house, 
Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
Despising spells and demons' force. 
Holds converse with the unburied corse ; * 
Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to move, 
(Alas, that lawless was their love !) 
He sought proud Tarquin in his den, 
And freed full sixty knights ; or when, 
A sinful man, and unconfess'd. 
He took the Sangreal's holy quest. 
And, slumbering, saw the vision high, 
He might not view with waking eye.^ 

The mightiest chiefs of British 5ong 
Scorn'd not such legends to prolong : 
They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream, 
And mix in Milton's heavenly theme ; 
And Dryden, in immortal strain, 
Had raised the Table Round again,^ 
But that a ribald King and Court 
Bade him toil on, to make them sport ; 
Demanded for their niggard pay. 
Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 
Licentious satire, song, and play ; 
The world defrauded of the high design. 
Profaned the God-given strength, and marr'd 
the lofty line. 

Warm'd by such names, well may we tlieo. 
Though dwindled sons of little men, 
Essay to break a feeble lance 
In the fair fields of old romance ; 
Or seek the moated castle's cell, 
Where long through talisman and spell. 
While tyrants ruled, and damsels wept, 
Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept : 
There sound the harpings of the North, 
Till he awake and sally forth, 
On venturous quest to prick again, 
In all his arms, with all his train. 
Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and 

scarf, 
Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf. 



4S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And wizard with his wand of might, 
And errant maid on palfrey white. 
Around the Genius weave their spells, 
Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells ; 
Mystery, half veil'd and half reveal'd ; 
And Honor, with his spotless shield; 
Attention, with fix'd eye ; and Fear, 
That loves the tale she shrinks to hear ; 
And gentle Courtesy; and Faith, 
Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death ; 
And Valor, lion-mettled lord, 
Leaning upon his own good sword. 

Well has thy fair achievement shown, 
A worthy meed may thus be won ; 
Ytene's * oaks — beneath whose shade 
Their theme the merry minstrels made. 
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold,-* 
And that Red King,t who, while of old, 
Through Boldrewood the chase he led, 
By his loved huntsman's arrow bled — 
Ytene's oaks have heard again 
Renew'd such legendary strain ; 
For th?u hast sung, how He of Gaul, 
That Amadis so famed in hall, 
For Oriana, foil'd in fight 
Th2 Necromancer's felon might; 
And well in modern verse hast wove 
Partenopex's mystic love : % 
Hear, inen, attentive to my lay, 
A knightly tale cf Albion's elder day. 



CANTO FIRST. 



THE CASTLE. 



I. 

Day set on Norham's castled steep,' 
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, 

And Cheviot's mountains lone : 
The battled towers, the donjon keep,^ 
The loophole grates, where captives weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep, 
• In yellow lustre shone. 
The warriors on the turrets high. 
Moving athwart the evening sky, 

Seem'd forms of giant height : 
Their armor, as it caught the rays, 
Flash'd back again the western blaze, 

In lines of dazzling light. 
II. 
Saint George's banner, broad and gay. 
Now faded, as tlie fading ray 



* Ytene, ancient name ot the New Forest, 
Hants. t William Rufus. 

t ParUnopeXy a poem by W. S. Rose. 



Less bright, and less, was flung ; 
The evening gale had scarce the power 
To wave it r the Donjon Tower, 

So heavily it hung. 
The scouts had parted on their search. 

The Castle gates were barr'd ; 
Above the gloomy portal arch, 
Timing his footsteps to a march, 

The Warder kept his guard ; 
Low humming, as he paced along. 
Some ancient Border gathering song. 



A distant trampling sound he hears ; 
He looks abroad, and soon appears, 
O'er Horncl iff -hill a plump of spears,§ 

Beneath a pennon gay ; 
A horseman, darting from the crowd, 
Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
Spurs on his mettled courser proud, 

Before the dark array. 
Beneath the sable palisade, 
That closed the Castle barricade, 

His bugle-horn he blew ; 
The warder hasted from the wall, 
And warned the Captain in the hall. 
For well the blast he knew ; 
And joyfully that knight did call, . 
To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 

IV. 

"Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,|j 

Bring pasties of the doe. 
And quickly make the entrance free, 
And bid my heralds ready be. 
And every minstrel sound his glee, 

And all our trumpets blow ; 
And, from the platform, spare ye not 
To fire a noble salvo-shot ; 

Lord Marmion waits below ! " 
Then to the Castle's lower ward 

Sped forty yeomen tall, 
The iron-studded gates unbarr'd, 
Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, 
'J'he lofty palisade unsparr'd 

And let the drawbridge fall. 



Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, 
Proudly his red-roan charger trode. 
His helm hung at the saddlebow; 
Well by his visage you might know 
He was a stalworth knight, and keen. 
And had in many a battle been ; 
The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd 
A token true of Bosworth field ; 



§ Body of men-at-arms. 



MalmMf. 



MARMION. 



49 



His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire, 
Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to ire; 
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek 
Did deep design and counsel speak. 
His forehead, by his casque worn bare, 
His thiciv mustache, and curly hair, 
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there. 

But morn through toil than age ; 
His square-turn'd joints, and strength of 

limb, 
Show'd him no carpet knight so trim, 
But in close fight a champion grim. 

In camps a leader sage. 

VI. 

Well was he arm'd from head to heel, 

In mail and plate of Milan steel ; ^ 

But his strong helm, of mighty cost, 

Was all with burnish'd gold emboss"d : 

Amid the plumage cf the crest, 

A falcon hover'd en her nest. 

With wings outspread, and forward breast ; 

E'en such a falcon, on his shield, 

Soar'd sable in an azure field : 

The golden legend bore aright, 

1131)0 c!)cck9 lU im-, to isciiti) is Mj)l)t.' 

Blue was the charger's broider'd rein ; 

Blue ribbons deck'd his arching mane ; 

The knightly housing's ample fold 

Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold. 

VII. 

Behind him rode two gallant squires, 
Of noble name, and knightly sires ; . 
They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim 
For well could each a war-horse tame. 
Could draw the bow, the sword could sway. 
And lightly bear the ring away ; 
Nor less with courteous precepts stored, 
Could dance in hall, and carve at board, 
And frame love-ditties passing rare, 
And sing them to a lady fair. 



Four men-at-arms came at their backs, 

With halbert, bill, and battle-axe; 

They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong. 

And led his sumpter-mules along, 

And ambling palfrey, when at need 

Him listed ease his battle-steed. 

The last and trustiest of the four. 

On high his forky pennon bore ; 

Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue, 

Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue, 

Where, blazon'd sable, as before, 

The towering falcon seem'd to soar. 



Last, twenty yeomen, two and two. 
In hosen black, and jerkins blue, 
With falcons broider'd on each breast, 
Attended on their lord's behest. 
Each, chosen for an archer good, 
Knew hunting-craft by lake cr wo:d ; 
Each one a six-foot bow could bend. 
And far a cloth-yard shaft could send : 
Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, 
And at their belts their quivers rang 
Their dusty palfreys, and array, 
Show'd they had march'd a weary \;^v. 

IX. 

'Tis meet that I should tell ycu now,. 
How fairly arm'd, and order 'd h.w. 

The soldiers of the c-u.:-.: d. 
With musket, pike, an-^ morion, 
To welcome noble Marmi-n, 

Stood in the Ca-^tle-ya.d ; 
M'.no'crels ano* tnimpeters Jver: ther^. 
The gunner belc bis hn stock yare. 

For welcc\"ne stict prepared . 
Enter'd the train, and such a clang. 
As then throuph ai; his turrets rang. 

Old Norha.Ti ne^er heard- 
X. 
The guards their morric;-p"kes advanced, 

The trumpets flourish' d bra'e. 
The cannon from the ramparts elanced. 

And thundering welcome gave. 
A blithe salute, in martial sort. 

The minstrels well might sound, 
For, as Lord Marmion cross'd the court, 

He scatter'd angels* round. 
" Welcome to Norham, Marmion ! 

Stout heart, and open hand ! 
Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan, 

Thou flower of English land ! '' 

XI. 

Two pursuivants, whom tabarts f deck, 
With silver scutcheon round their neck, 

Stood on the steps of stone, 
By which you reach the donjon gate. 
And there, with herald pomp and state, 

They hail'd Lord Marmion : 
They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 

Of Tamworth tower and town ; 9 
And he, their courtesy to requite. 
Gave them a chain of twelve marks' weight, 

Ail as he lighted down. 



* A gold coin of the period, value about ten 
shillings. 

+ The embroidered overcoat of the heralds^ 
&c. 



so 



^COrrS POETICAL WOP AS. 



" Now, largesse, largesse,* Lord Marm 
Knight of the crest of gold ! 

A blazon'd shield, in battle won, 
Ne'er guarded heart so bold." 



They marshall'd him to the Castle-hall, 

Where the guests stood all aside, 
And loudly flourish'd the trumpet-call, 

A-nd the heralds loudly cried, 
— " Room, lordings, room for Lord Mar- 
mion, 

With the crest and helm of gold ! 
Full well we know the trophies won 

In the lists of Cottiswold : 
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 

'Gainst Marmion's force to stand ; 
To him he lost his lady-love, 

And to the King his land. 
Ourselves beheld the listed field, 

A sight both sad and fair ; 
We saw Lord Marm ion pierce his shield, 

And saw his saddle bare ; 
We saw the victor win the crest 

He wears with worthy pride; 
And on the gibbet-tree, reversed, 

His foeman's scutcheon tied. 
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight I 

Room, room, ye gentles gay, 
For him who conquer'd in the right, 

Marmion of Fontenaye 1 " 



Then siepp'd to meet thst noble Lord, 

Sir Hugh th ; Heron bold, 
Baron of Twisell, and of Ford. 

And Captam of th.- Hcld'^ 
H led Lord Marmion to th2 deas. 

Raised o'er th • pavement high, 
And placed him in the upper place — 

T!>ey feasted ful! and high : 
The whiles a Northern harper rude 
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, 

"■ H OH' the fierce Thirwalls^ and Ridley s 
all, 
Stout Willi7nondswick, 
A '! d Hardriding Dick, 
And Huohie of Hawdon, and Will d 
the Wall, 
Have set on Sir Albaity Feather stonhaugh, 
And taken his life at the Dcadman^s-shawy 



* The cry by which the bounty of knights 
and nobles was thanked. The word is still 
used in the hopgardens of Kent and Sussex, 
as a demand for payment from strangers en- 
tering Uie«. 



Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook 

The harp.^'s barbarous lay ; 
Yet much he praised the pains he took. 
And well those pains did pay : 
For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain, 
By knight should ne'er be heard in vain. 

XIV. 

" Now, good LoiJ Marmion,' • Heron says, 

" Of your fair courtesy, 
I pray you bide some little space 

In this poor tower with me. 
Here may you keep your arms from rust^ 

May breathe your war-hcrse well ; 
Seldom hath pass'd a week but giust 

Or feat of arms befell ; 
The Scots can rein a mettled steed ; 

And love to couch a spear ; — 
Saint George I a stirring life they lead, 

That have such neighbors near. 
Then stay with us a little space, 

Our northern wars to learn ; 
I pray you, for your lady's grace! '' 

Lord Marmion's brow grew stern. 



The Captain mark'd his alter'd look. 

And gave a squire the sign ; 
A mighty wassail-bowl he took, 

And crown'd it high in wine. 
" Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion : 

But firs: I pray thee fair, 
Where hast thou left that page of thine, 
That used to serve thy cup of wme, 

'A'hcse "neaaty was so rare? 
When last in Raby towers we met, 

The boy I closely eyed, 
And often mark'd his cheeks were wet. 

With tears he fain would hide : 
His was r.o rugged horse-boy's hand. 
To burnish sh'ield or sharpen brand. 

Or saddle battle-steed ; 
But meeter seem'd for lady fair,_ 
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair, 
Or through embroidery, rich and rare, 

The slender silk to lead ; 
His skin was fair, his ringlets gold, 

His bosom — when he sigh'd. 
The russet doublet's rugged fold 

Could scarce repel its pride ! 
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth 

To serve in lady's bower? 
Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 

A gentle paramour ? " 

XVI. 

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest ; 
He roll'd his kindling eye, 



MARMION 



51 



With pain his rising wrath suppress'd, 

Yet made a calm reply : 
" That boy thou thought'st so goodly fair. 
He might not brook the northern air ; 
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn, 
•1 left him sick in Lindisfarn : 
Enough of him. — But, Heron, say, 
Whc/' does thy lovely lady gay 
Disdain to grace the hall to-day ? 
Or has that dame,- so fair and sage, 
Gone on some pious pilgrimage ? " — 
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame 
Whisper'd light tales of Heron's dame. 

XVII. 

Unmark'd, at least unreck'd, the taunt ; 

Careless the Knight rephed, 
" No bird, whose feathers gayly flaunt. 

Delights in cage to bide : 
Norham is grim and grated close, 
Hemm'd in by battlement and fosse, 

And many a darksome tower; 
And better loves my lady bright 
To sit in liberty and light, 

In fair Queen Margaret's bower. 
We hold our greyhound in our hand, 

Our falcon on our glove ; 
But where shall we find leash or band, 

For dame that loves to rove ? 
Let the wild falcon soar her swing, 
She'll stoop when she has tired her wing." — 

XVIII, 

" Nay, of with Royal James's bride 

The lovely Lady Heron bide. 

Behold me here a messenger, 

Your tender greetings prompt to bear ; 

For, to the Scottish court address'd, 

I journey at our King's behest. 

And pray you, of your grate, provide 

For me, and mine, a trusty guide. 

I have not ridden in Scotland since 

James back'd the cause of that mock prince 

Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, 

Who on the gibbet paid the cheat. 

Then did I march with Surrey's power. 

What time we razed old Ayton tower." ^* 



" For suchlike need, my lord> I trow, 
Norham can find you guides enow ; 
For here be some have prick' d as far, 
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ; 
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale. 
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ; 
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, 
And given them light to set tlieir hoods." '- 



" Nov/, in good sooth," Lord Marmion 

cried, 
" Were I in warlike wise to ride, 
A better guard I would not lack. 
Than your stout foray ers at my back ; 
But, as in form of peace 1 go, 
A friendly messenger, to know, 
Why through all Scotland, near and far, 
Their King is mustering troops for war^ 
The sight of plundering border spears 
Might justify suspicious fears, 
And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil. 
Break out in some unseemly broil : 
A heraid were my fitting guide; 
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ; 
Or pardoner, or travelling priest. 
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least." 

XXI. 

The Captain mused a little space, 

And pass'd his hand across his face. 

— '' Fain would I find the guide you want, ^ 

But ill may spare a pursuivant, 

The only men that safe can ride 

Mine errands on the Scottish side : 

And though a bishop built this fort, 

Few holy brethren here resort ; 

Even our good chaplain, as I ween, 

Since our last siege, we have not seen : 

The mass he might not sing or say. 

Upon one stinted meal a-day ; 

So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, 

And pray'd for our success the while. 

Our Norman vicar, woe betide, 

Is all too well in case to ride ; 

The priesfof Shoreswood ^^ — he could rein 

The wildest war-horse in your train ; 

But then, no spearman in the hall 

Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 

Friar John of Tillmouth were the man : 

A blithesome brother at the can, 

A welcome guest in hall and bower, 

He knows each castle, town, and towcip 

In which the wine and ale is good, 

'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood, 

But that good man, as ill befalls. 

Hath seldom left our castle walls, 

Since, on the vigil of St. Bede, 

In evil hour, he cross'd the Tweed, 

To teach Dame Alison her creed. 

Old Bughtrig found him with his wif©^. 

And John, an enemy to strife, 

Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. 

The jealous churl hath deeply swore. 

That, if again he venture o'er, 

He shall shrive penitent no more. 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Little he loves such risks, I know ; 
Yet, in your guard, perchance will go." 

XXII. 

■VounGj Selby, at the fair hall-board, 
Carved to his uncle and that lord, 
And reverently took up the word. 
*' Kind uncle, woe were we each one. 
If harm should hap to brother John. 
He is a man of mirthful speech, 
Can many a game and gamljol teach ; 
Full well at tables can he play, 
And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
None can a lustier carol bawl, 
The needfullest among us all, 
When time hangs heavy in the hall. 
And snow comes thick at Christmas tide, 
And we can neither hunt, nor ride 
A foray on the Scottish side. 
The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude, 
May end in worse than loss of hood. 
Let Friar John, in safety, still 
In chimney-corner snore his fill, 
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill . 
Last night, to Norham there came one, 
Will better guide Lord Marmion." — 
" Nephew," quoth Heron, " by my fay. 
Well hast thou spoke* ; say forth thy say." 

XXIII. 

" Here is a holy Palmer come. 

From Salem first, and last from Rome ; 

One, that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb, 

And visited each holy shrine 

In Araby and Palestme ; 

On hills of Armenie hath been, 

Where Noah's ark may yet be seen ; 

By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod', 

Which parted at the prophet's rod ; 

In Sinai's wilderness he saw 

The Mount, where Israel heard the law, 

■'Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin. 

And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. 

He shows Saint James's cockle-shell. 

Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ; 

And of that Grot where Olives nod. 
Where, darling of each heart and eye, 
Prom all the youth of Sicily, 

Saint Rosalie retired to God.^* 

XXIV. 
" To stout Saint George of Norwich merry. 
Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, 
Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 
For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd. 
He knows the passes of the North, 
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth ; 



Little he eats, and long will wake, 
And drinks but of the stream or lake. 
This were a guide o'er moor and dale ; 
But, when our John hath quaff'd his ale, 
As little as the wind that blows. 
And warms itself against his nose. 
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes."-" 



" Gramercy ! " quoth Lord MarrdfeoTij 
" Full loth were I, that Friar John, 
That venerable man, for me, 
Were placed in fear of jeopardy. 
If this same Palmer will me lead 

From hence to Holy-Rood, 
Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed, 
Instead of cockle-shell, or bead, 

With angels fair and good. 
I love such holy ramblers; still 
They know to charm a weary hill, 

With song, romance, or lay : 
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest. 
Some lying legend, at the least. 

They bring to cheer the way."— 



*' Ah ! noble sir," young Selby said, 

And finger on his lip he laid, 

" This man knows much, perchance e'ea 

more 
Than he could learn by holy lore. 
Still to himself he's muttering. 
And shrinks as at some unseen thing. 
Last night we listen' d at his cell ; 
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell. 
He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er 
No living mortal could be near. 
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain. 
As other voices spoke again. 
I cannot tell — 1 like it not — 
Friar John hath told us it is wrote, 
No conscience clear, and void of wrong, 
Can rest awake, and pray so long. 
Himself still sleeps before his beads 
Have mark'd ten aves, and two creeds." *- 



— " Let pass," quoth Marmion ; " by iiij 

fay. 
This man shall guide me on my way, 
Although the great arch-fiend and he 
Had sworn themselves of company. 
So please you, gentle youth, to call 
This Palmer to'^the Castle-hall." 
The summon'd Palmer came in place : •* 
His sable cowl o'erhung his face ; 



MARMIOIJ-. 



53 



In his black mautle was he ciad, 
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red, 

On his broad shoulders wrought ; 
The scallop shell his cap did deck , 
The crucifix around his neck 

Was from Loretto brought ; 
His sandals were with travel tore. 
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ; 
The faded palra-branch in his hand 
Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land. 

XXVIII. 

When as the Palmer came in hall, 

No lord, nor knight, was there more tall, 

Nor had a statelier step withal, 

Or look'd ]nore high and keen ; 
For no saluting did he wait, 
But strodj across the hall of state, 
And fronted Marmion where he sate, 

As he his peer had been. 
But his gaunt frame was worn with toil ; 
His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! 
And when he struggled at a smile, 

His eye look'd haggard wild : 
Poor wretch ! the mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there, 
In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair. 

She had not known her child. 
Danger, long travel, want, or woe, 
Soon change the form that best we know — 
For deadly fear can time outgo, 

And blanch at once the hair ; 
Hard toil can roughen form and face, 
And want can quench the eye's bright 

grace, 
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace 

More deeply than despair. 
Happy whom none of these befall. 
But this poor Palmer knew them all. 



Lord Marmion then his boon did ask ; 
The Palmer took on him the task, 
So he would march with morning tide, 
To Scottish court to be his guide. 
** But I have solemn vows to pay, 
And may not linger by the way, 

To fair St. Andrew's bound, 
Within the ocean-cave to pray. 
Where good Saint Rule his holy lay, 
From midnight to the dawn of day, 

Sung to the billows' sound ; ^'' 
Thence to Saint FUlan's blessed well, 
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel, 

And the crazed brain restore : ^^ 
Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring 
Could back to peace mv bosom bring, 

Or bid it throb no more 1 " 



XXX. 

And now the midnight draught of sleep, 
Where wine and spices richly steep, 
In massive bowl of silver deep, 

The page presents on knee. 
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
The Captain pledged his noble guest. 
The cup went through among the rest. 

Who drain'd it merrily ; 
Alone the Palmer pass'd it by. 
Though Selby press'd him courteouslyo 
This was a sign the feast was o'c" \ 
It hush'd the merry wassail roar, 

The minstrels ceased to sound. 
Soon in the castle nought was heard, 
But the slow footstep of the guard, 

Pacing his sober round. 

XXXI, 

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose • 

And first the chapel doors unclose ; 

Then, after morning rites were done, 

(A hasty mass from Friar John.) 

And knight and squire had broke their fast. 

On rich substantial repast, 

Lord Marmicn's bugles blew to horse : 

Then came the stirrup-cup in course ; 

Between the Baron and his host, 

No point of courtesy was lost ; 

High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, 

Solemn excuse the Captain made, 

Till, fihng from the gate, had pass'd 

That noble train, their Lord the last. 

Then loudly rung the trumpet call ; 

Thunder'd the cannon from the wall, 

And shook the Scottish shore ; 
Around the castle eddied slow, 
Volumes of smoke as white as snow, 

And hid its turrets hoar; 
Till they roll'd forth upon the air, 
And met the river breezes there. 
Which gave again the prospect fair. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
SECOND. 



THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M. 

Ashesticl, Ettrick Forest. 
The scenes are desert now, and bar.-, 
Where flourish'd once a forest fair,^^ 
When these waste glens with ccpse were 

lined. 
And peopled with the hart and hind. 



54 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yon Thorn — perchance whose prickly 

spears 
Have fenced him for three hundred years, 
While fell around his green compeers — 
Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell 
The changes of his parent dell, 
Since he, so gray and stubborn now, 
Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ; 
Would he could tell how deep the shade 
A thousand mingled branches made ; 
How broad the shadows of the oak, 
How clung the rowan * to the rock, 
And through the foliage show'd his head, 
With narrow leaves and Ijerries red ; 
What pines on every mountain sprung, 
O'er every dell what birches hung, 
In every breeze what aspens shook, 
What alders shaded every brook I 

"Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, 
" The mighty stag at noon-tide lay : 
The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, 
(The neighboring dingle bears his name,) 
With lurching step around me prowl. 
And stop, against the moon to howl j 
The mountain-boar, on battle set. 
His tusks upon my stem would whet ; 
W'hile doe, and roe, and red deer good, 
Have bounded by, through gay green- 
wood. 
Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, 
Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: 
A thousand vassals muster'd round, 
With horse, and hawk, and horn, and 

hound ; 
And I might see the youth intent. 
Guard every pass with crossbow bent ; 
And through the brake the rangers stalk, 
And falc'ners hold the ready hawk ; 
And foresters, in green-wood trim, 
Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, 
Attentive, as the bratchet's t bay 
From the dark covert drove the prey, 
To slip them as he broke away. 
The startled quarry bounds amain. 
As fast the gallant greyhounds strain 
Whistles the arrov/ from the bow, 
Answers the harquebuss below ; 
While all the rocking hills reply, 
To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry, 
And bugles ringing lightsomely." 

Of such proud huntings, many tales 
Yet linger in our lonely dales, 
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, 



* Mountain ash. 



t Slowhound. 



Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. J 
But not more blithe that silvan court. 
Than we have been at humbler sport ; 
TlKJugh small ur pomp, and mean •u| 

game, 
Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. 
Remembei'st tliou my greyhounds tru< \ 
O'er holt or hill there never flew. 
From slip or laash there never sprang > 
More fleet of foot, or sure of fang. 
Nor dull, between each merry chase, 
Pass'd by the intermitted space ; 
For we had fair resource in store, 
In Classic and in Gothic lore: 
We mark'd each memorable scene. 
And held poetic talk between ; 
Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 
But had its legend or its song. 
All silent now — for now are still 
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! § 
No longer, from thy mountains dun, 
The yeoman hears the well-known gun. 
And while his honest heart grows v,-arm, 
At thought of his parental farm. 
Round to his mates a brimmer fills. 
And drinks, " The Chiettain of the Hiils ! " 
No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, 
Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, 
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw 
By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh ; 
No youthful Baron's left to grace 
The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, 
And ape, in manly step and tone. 
The majesty of Oberon : 
And she is gone, whose lovely face 
Is but her least and lowest grace ; 
Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, 
To show our earth the charms of Heaven, 
She could not glide along the air, 
With form more light, or face more fair. 
No more the widow's deafen'd ear 
Grows quick that lady's step to hear: 
At noon-tide she expects her not, 
Nor busies her to trim the cot ; 
Pensive she turns her humming wheel. 
Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal ; 
Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 
The gentle hand by which they're fed. 

From Yair, — which hills so closely bind, 
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, 
Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, 
Till all his eddying currents boil, — 



X Murray, the Robin Hood of Ettrick, but 
inferior in good qualities to our archer. 

§ A seat of the Duke of Buccleuch on ths 
Yarrow. 



MARMIOJSr. 



55 



Her long-descended lord is gone, 
And left us by the stream alone. 
And much I miss those sportive boys, 
Companions of my mountain joys, 
Just at the age 'twixt.boy and youth, 
When thought is speech, and speech is 

truth. 
Close to my side, with what delight 
They press'd to hear of Wallace wight, 
When, pointing to his airy mound, 
I call'd his ramparts holy ground ! 
Kindled their brows to hear me speak ; 
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek. 
Despite the difference of our years. 
Return again the glow of theirs. 
Ah, happy boys ! such feelings pure. 
They will not, cannot, long endure ! 
Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide, 
You may not linger by the side ; 
For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, 
And Passion ply the sail and oar. 
Yet cherish the remembrance still. 
Of the lone mountain, and the rill ; 
For trust, dear boys, the time will ccrnc, 
When fiercer transport shall be dumb, 
And you will think right frequently. 
But, well, I hope, without a sigh, 
Cn t'le free hours that we have spent 
Together, on the brown hill's bent. 

When, mu;ing on companions gone, 
We doubly feel ourselves alone, 
Somethmg, my frer.d, we yet may gain ; 
There is a p.easure in this pain ; 
\i soothes tha Icve cf lonely rest, 
Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 
'Tis silent amid wcrldiy toils, 
And stifled socn by mental broils ; 
But m a bosom thus prepared, 
its still small vojce is cften heard, 
Whispering a mingled sentiment, 
'Twixt resignation and content. 
Oft \w my mind such thoughts awake. 
By lone St. Mary's silent lake ; ^^ 
Thou know'st it well, — nor fen, nor sedge, 
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ; 
Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 
At once upon the level brink ; 
And just a trace of silver sand 
Marks where the water meets the land. 
Far in the mirror, bright and blue. 
Each hill's huge outline you may view ; 
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, 
Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there. 
Save where, of land, j'on -^lender line 
Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. 
Yet even this nakedness has power, 



And aids the feeling of the hour : 

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, 

Where living thing conceal'd might lie 

Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, 

Where swain, or woodman lone, might 

dwell ; 
There's nothing left to fancy's guess, 
You see that all is loneliness : 
And silence aids — though the steep hills 
Send to the lake a thousand rills ; 
In summer tide, so oft they weep, 
The sound but lulls the ear asleep ; 
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, 
So stilly is the solitude 

Nought living meets the eye or ear, 
But well I ween the dead are near ; 
For though, in feudal strife, a foe 
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,'^ 
Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil. 
The peasant rests him from his toil, 
And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 
Where erst his simple fathers pray'd. 

If age had tamed the passions' strife, 
And fate had cut my ties to life. 
Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to 

dwell, 
And rear again the chaplain's cell. 
Like that same peaceful hermitage, 
Where Milton Itng'd to spend his age. 
'Twere sweet to mark the setting day. 
On Bourhope's lonely top decay; 
And, as it faint and feeble died 
On the bread lake, and mountain's side, 
To say, " Thus pleasures fade away ; 
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay. 
And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray ;" 
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower, 
And '.hink on Yarrow's faded Flower: 
And when that mountain-sound I heard. 
Which bids us be for storm prepared. 
The distant rustling of his wings, 
As up his force the Tempest brin;^s, 
' Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave. 
To sit upon the Wizard's grave ; 
That Wizard Priest's, whose bones ar© 

thrust 
From company of holy dust ; " 
On which no sunbeam ever shines — 
(So superstition's creed divines) — 
Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, 
Heave her broad billows to the shore; 
And mark the wild-swans mount the gale. 
Spread wide through mist their snowy sa^f 
And ever stoop again, to lave 
Their bosoms on the surging wave: 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Then, when against the driving hail 
No longer might my plaid avail, 
Back to my lonely home retire, 
And light my lamp, and trim my fire ; 
There ponder o'er some mystic lay, 
Till the wild tale had all its sway. 
And, in the bittern's distant shriek, 
I heard unearthly voices speak, 
And thought the Wizard Priest was ccme, 
To claim again his ancient home ! 
And bade my busy fancy range, 
'To frame him fitting shape and strange, 
rill from the task my brow I clear'd, 
And smiled to think that I had fear'd. 

But chief, 'iwere sweet to think such life, 
(Thougli but escape from fortune's strife,) 
Something most matchless good and wise, 
A great and grateful sacrifice ; 
And deem each hour to musing given, 
A step upon the road to heaven. 

Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, 
Such peaceful solitudes displease : 
He loves to drown his bosom's jar 
Amid the elemental war; 
And my black Palmer's choice had iDeen 
Some ruder and more savage scene, 
Like that which frowns round dark Lcch- 

skene.^^ 
There eagles scream from isle to shore ; 
Dov/n all the rocks the torrents roar ; 
O'er the black waves incessant driven, 
Dark mists infect the summer heaven ; 
Tlir ugh the rude barriers of the lake, 
Away its hurrying waters break, 
Faster and whiter dash and curl, 
Till down yen dar'jc abyss they hurl. 
Rises the fog-smcke v.'hite as snow. 
Thunders the viewless stream below, 
Diving, as if condemned to lave 
Some demcn's subterranean cave, 
Wh_, pns.n'd by enchanter's spell. 
Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell. 
And well thai Palmer's form and mien 
Had suited with the stormy scere, 
Just n the edge, straining his ken 
T view th J b ttom of the den, 
Where, deep deep down, and far within, 
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ; 
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave. 
And v;heeling round the Giant's Grave, 
White as the snowy charger's tail, 
Drives djwn the pass of Moffatdale. 

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung, 
To many a Border theme has rung : 



Then list to me, and thou shalt know 
Of this mysterious iVIan of Woe. 



CANTO SECOND. 



THE CONVENT. 



The breeze which swept away the smoko. 

Round Norham Castle roU'd, 
When all the loud artilJery spoke, 
! With lightning flash and thunder-strckcj 
j As M-rmicn left the Held. 
I It curl'd net Tweed alone, that breeze. 
For, far upcn Ncrthumbrian seas. 

It freshly b'ew, and strong, 
Wliere, fr; m high \^'hitby's cloister" J pil'^j 
Bound to St. Cuthbert's Holy Is!e,=-' 

It bore a bark aicng. 
Upon the gale she stoop'd her side, 
And bounded c'e.' the sw'eiling tide, 

As she were dancing home ; 
The merry seamen laugh'd, to see 
Their gallant ship so lustily 

Furrow the green sea-foam. 
Much joy'd they in their honor'd freight-, 
For, on the deck, in chair of state, 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed. 
With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 



'Twas sweet to see these holy maids, 
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades. 

Their first flight from the cage, 
How timid, and how curious too. 
For all to them was strange and new, 
And all the common sights they view. 

Their wonderment engage. 
One eyed the shrouds arid swelling sail, 

With many a benedicite ; 
One at the rippling surge grew pale, 

And would for terror pray ; 
Then shriekM, because the sea-dog, ni-rh, 
His round black head, and sparkling cySf 

Rear'd o'er the foaming spray ; 
And one would still adjust her veil, 
Disorder'd by the summer gale. 
Perchance lest some more workjly eye 
Her dedicated charms might spy ; 
Perchance, because such action graced 
Her fair-turn'd arm and slende^r wai;,t. 
Light v.'as each simple bosom there. 
Save two, v.-ho ill might pleasure share,-* 
The Abbess and the Novice Clare. 



MARMION. 



57 



The Abbess was of noble blood, 
But early took the veil and iiood, 
Ere upon life she cast a look, 
Or knew the world that she forsook. 
Fair too she was, and kind had been 
As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 
For her a timid lover sigh, 
Nor knew the influence of her eye. 
Love, to her ear, was but a name 
Combined with vanity and shame ; 
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 
Bounded within the cloister wall : 
The deadliest sin her mind could reach, 
Was of monastic rule the breach ; 
And her ambition's highest aim 
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 
For this she gave her ample dower, 
To raise the convent's eastern tower ; 
For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
She deck'd the chapel of the saint, 
And gave the relic-bhrine of cost, 
With ivory and gem.s en-;boss'd. 
The poor her Convent's bounty blest, 
The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 

IV. 

Eiack was her gavb, he*- rigid rule 
. Reform'd on Benedictme school ; 
Her cheek was pale, her form was ^paie ; 
Vigils, and penitence austere, 
Had early quench'd the light of y ,utti, 
But gentle was the dame, in sooth ; 
Though, vam of her religious sway. 
She loved to see her maids obey. 
Yet nothing stern was she m ceil, 
And '■.he nuns oved their Abbess well. 
Sad was this voyage tc the damt ; 
Summon d cc Lindisfarne, she came, 
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abboi old, 
And Tynemouth s Prioress, to hold 
A chapter of St. Benedict, 
Fcr ..nquisition stern and strict, 
Cn tw3 i.postaces from the faith, 
And, if need were, to doom to death 



Nought say I here of Sister Clare, 
Save this, that she was young and fair ; 
As yet, a novice unprofess'd, 
Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. 
She v;a's betroth'd to one now dead. 
Or worse, who liad dishonor'd fled. 
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand 
To one, who loved her for her land : 
Herself, almost heart-broken now, 
Was bent to take the vestal vow, 



And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom, 
Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom. 



VI. 

She sate upon the galley's prow. 

And seem'd to mark the waves below; 

Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye, 

To count them as they glided by. 

She saw them not — 'twas seeming all — 

Far other scene her thoughts recall, — 

A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and baie, 

Xor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd mere ; 

There saw she, where some careless hand 

O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the sand, 

To hid- it till the jackals come, 

To tear it from the scanty tomb. — - 

See what a woeful look was given, 

Aii she raised up her eyes to heaven 1 

VII. 

Lovely, and eentie, and distress'd — 

These charms might tame the fiercest 
oreast , 

Harpers hav sung, and poets told, 

That ne, in fury uncontroll'd, 

Th ■ shaggy monarch of the wood^ 

3ef re a 'virgin, fair and good, 

ti h pacified his savage mood. 

Bv : passions in the human frame, 
I v.^t put the 'i.cn's rage to shame : 
I And jealousy, by dark intrigue, 

Vith sordid avarice in league, 

Had practised with their bowl and knife, 
I Against the mourner's harmless life. 

Th's crime was charged 'gainst those whr-< 

jy 

Prison d in Cuthbert's islet gray. 

V^III, 

And now the vessel skirts the strand 
Of mountaincus Northumberland ; 
Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, 
And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay; 
And Tynemouth's priory and bay ; 
They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall 
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval , 
They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck f!ccds 
Rush to the sea through sounding woods ; 
They pass'd the tower of Widderington, 
Mother of many a valiant son ; 
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 
To ;Jie good Saint who own'd the cell ; 
Then did the Alne attention claim, 
And Warkworth, proud of I^ercy's name ; 
And next, they cross'd themselves, to hear 
The whitening breakers sound so acar^ 



58 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORI^S. 



Where, boiling thro' the rocks, they roar, 
On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore ; 
Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd they 

there. 
King Ida's castle, huge and square, 
From its tall rock look grimly down, 
And on the swelling ocean frown ; 
Then from the coast they bore away. 
And reach'd the Holy Island's bay. 

IX. 

The tide did now its flood-mark gain, 
And girdled in the Saint's domain : 
For, with the flow and ebb, its style 
Varies from continent to isle ; 
Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, 
The pilgrims to the shrine find way ; 
'Twice every day, the waves efface 
Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace. 
As to the port the galley flew, 
Higher and higher rose to view 
The Castle with its battled walls, 
The ancient monastery's halls, 
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, 
Placed on the margin of the isle, 

X. 

In Saxon strength that abbey frown'd, 
With massive arches broad and round. 

That rose alternate, row and row, 

On ponderous columns, short and low, 
Built ere the art was known. 

By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, 

The arcades of an alley'd walk 
To emulate in stone. 
On the deep walls, the heathen Dane 
Had pour'd his impious rage in vain ; 
And needful was such strength to these, 
Exposed to the tempestuous seas, 
Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 
Open to rovers fierce as they, 
Which could twelve hundred years with- 
stand 
Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. 
Not but that portions of the pile, 
Rebuilded in a later style, 
Shov/'d where the spoiler's hand had been ; 
Not but tlie wastmg sea-breeze keen 
,Had worn the pillar's carving quaint, 
And moulder'd in his niche the saint, 
And rounded, with consuming power, 
Tlie pointed angles of each tower; 
Yet still entire the Abbey stood, 
Like veteran, worn, but imsubdued. 

XI. 
Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, 
The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song. 



And with the sea-wave and the wind. 
Their voices, sweetly shrill, combmed, 

And made harmonious close ; 
Then, answering from the sandy shore, 
Half .drown'd amid the breakers' roar, 

Accordmg chorus rose • 
Down to the haven of the Isle, 
The monks and nuns in order file, 
From Cuthbert's cloisters grim ; 
Banner, and cross, and relics there, 
To meet St. Hilda's maids, they bare; 
And, as they caught the sounds on air, 

They echoed back the hymn. 
Tlie islanders, in joyous mood, 
Rush'd emulously through the flood, 

To hale the bark to land ; 
Conspicuous by her veil and hood, 
Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, 
And bless' d them with her hand. 

XII. 

Suppose v/e now the welcome said, 
Suppose the Convent banquet made: 

All through the holy dome, 
Through cloister, aisie, and gallery 
Wherever vestal maid might pry, 
Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye, 

The stranger sisters roam ; 
Till fell the evening damp with dew, 
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, 
For there, even summer night is chill. 
Then, having stray'd and gazed thess 
fill. 

They closed around the fire ; 
And ail, in turn, essay'd to paini 
The rival merits of their saint, 

A theme that ne'er can tire 
A holy maid , for, be it known, 
That their saint's honor is their owru 

XIII. 

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, 
How to their house three Barons bold 

Must menial service do ; 
While horns blow out a note of shame. 
And monks cry " Fie upon your name 5 
In wratli, for loss of sylvan game. 

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew." — 
" This, on Ascension-day, each year, 
While laboring on our harbor-pier, 
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hetr."— • 
They told, how in their convent cell 
A Saxon princess once did dwell, 

The lovely Edelfled ; -s 
And how, of thousand snakes, each 02ie 
Was changed into a coil of stone, 

When holy Hilda pray'd j 



^1 



marmfon: 



59 



Themselves, within their holy bpimd, 
Their stony folds had often found. 
They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail 
As over Whitby's towers they sail,-^ 
And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, 
Tkey do their homage to the saint. 



Nor did St. Cuthberfj daughters fail 

To vie with these in holy tale ; 

His body's resting-place, of old, 

How oft their patron changed, they told ; ^^ 

How, when the rude Dane burn'd their 

pile. 
The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ; 
O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 
From sea to sea, from shore to shore, 
Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they 
bore. 

They rested them in fair Melrose ; 
But though, alive, he loved it well. 

Not there his relics might repose ; 
For, wondrous tale to tell ! 

In his stone cofifin forth he rides, 

A ponderous bark for river tides, 

Yet light as gossamer it glides, 
Downward to Tilmouth cell. • 
Ncr long was his abiding there. 
For southward did the saint repair ; 
Chester-le-Street and Rippon saw 
His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw 

Hail'd him with joy and fear ; 
And, after many wanderings past, 
He chose his lordly seat at last, 
Where his cathedral, huge and vast. 

Looks down upon the Wear : 
There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, 
His reUcs are in secret laid ; 

But none may know the place, 
Save of his holiest servants three, 
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy. 

Who share that wondrous grace. 



Who may his miracles declare ! 

Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir, 

f Although with them they led 
Gaiwegians, wild as ocean's gale, 
And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail. 
And the bold men of Teviotdale,) 

Before his standard fled.^s 
'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, 
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
And turn'd the Conqueror back again,"^ 
When, with his Norman bowyer band, 
He came to waste Northumberland. 



XVI. 

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn 
If, on a rock by Lindisfarne, 
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
The sea-born beads that bear his name : ** 
Such tales had Whitby's .Ushers told. 
And said they might his shape behold, 

And hear his anvil sound ; 
A deaden'd clang, — a huge dim form. 
Seen but, and heard, when gathering 
storm 

And night were closing round. 
But this, as tale of idle fame, 
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 

XVII. 

While round the fire suc'-> legends go, 
Far different was the scens of woe. 
Where, in a secret aisle 'oeneath, 
Council was held of life and death. 

It was more dark and lone that vault, 
Than the worst dungeon cell : 

Old Colwulf -'1 built it, for his fault, 
In penitence to dwell, 
When he, for cowl and beads, laid down 
The Saxon battle-axe and crown. 
This den, which, chilling every sense 

Of feeling, hearing, siglit. 
Was call'd the Vault of Penitence, 

Excluding air and light. 
Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made 
A place of burial for such dead, 
As, having died in mortal sin. 
Might not be laid the church within, 
'Twas now a place of punishment ; 
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent, 

As reach'd the upper air. 
The hearers bless'd themselves, and said. 
The spirits of the sinful dead 

Bemoan' d their torments there. 



But though, in the monastic pile, 
Did of this penitential aisle 

Some vague tradition go, 
Few only, save the Abbot, knew 
Where the place lay ; and still more few 
Were those, who had from him the clew 

To that dread vault to go. 
Victim and executioner 
Were blindfold when transported there. 
In low dark rounds the arches hung, 
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung 
The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, 
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore. 
Were all the pavement of the flooir : 



6o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The mildew-drops fell one by one, 
With tinkling plash, upon the stone. 
A cresset,* in an iron chain, 
Which served to light this drear domain, 
With damp and darkness seem'd to strive, 
As if it scarce might keep alive ; 
And yet it dimly served to show 
The awful conclave met below. 

XIX. 

There, met to doom in secrecy, 

'Were placed the heads of convents three : 

All servants of St. Benedict, 

The statutes of whose order strict 

On iron table lay ; 
In long black dress, on seats of stone, 
Behind were these three judges shown 

By the pale cresset's ray : 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, 
Sat for a space with visage bare, 
Until, to hide her bosom's swell. 
And tear-drops that for pity fell, 

She closely drew her veil : 
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess. 
By her proud mien and flowing dress, 
Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, 3- 

And she with awe loolcs pale : 
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight 
Has long been quench'd by age's night, 
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 
Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown, 

Whose look is hard and stern, — 
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style ; 
For sanctity call'd, through the isle, 

The Saint of Lindisfarne. 

XX. 

Before them stood a guilty pair ; 

But, though an equal fate they share, , 

Yet one alone deserves our care. 

Her sex a page's dress belied ; 

Tha c 'lak anH doublet, loosely tied, 

Obscured her charms, Ijut could not hide. 

Her cap down o'er her face she drew ; 
And, on her doublet breast. 

She tried to hide the badge of blue. 
Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 
But, at the Prioress' command, 
A Monk undid the silver band. 

That tied her tresses fair. 
And raised the bonnet from her head. 
And down her slender form they spread. 

In ringlets rich and rare. 
Constance de Beverley they know, 
Sister profess'd of Fontevraud, 



' Ai:uqu« chandther. 



Whom the church number'd with the 

dead. 
For broken vows, and convent fled. 

XXI. 

When thus her face was given to \'iew, 
(Although so pallid was her hue. 
It did a ghastly contrast bear 
To those bright ringlets glistering fair,) 
Her look composed, and steady eye, 
Bespoke a matchless constancy ; 
And there she stood so calm and pale, 
That, but her breathing did not fail. 
And motion slight of eye and head, 
And of her bosom, warranted 
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks. 
You might have thought a form of wax, 
Wrought to the very life, was there ; 
So still she was, so pale, so fair. 

XXII. 

Her comrade was a sordid soul. 

Such c.s does murder iora meed; 
Who, but cf fear, knows no control, 
Because his conscience, sear'd and foul. 

Feels not the import of his deed; 
One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 
Beyond his own mere brute desires. 
Such tools the Tempter ever needs, 
To do the savagest of deeds ; 
For them no vision'd terrors daunt, 
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 
One fear with them, cf all most base. 
The fear of death, — alone finds place. . 
This wretch v.'as clad in frock and cowl, 
And shamed not loud to mean and howl, 
His body on the floor to dash. 
And crouch, like hound beneath the lash 
While his mute partner, standing near. 
Waited her doom without a tear. 

XXIII. 

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, 
Well might her paleness terror speak I 
For there were seen in that dark wall, 
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;— 
Who enters at such grisly door. 
Shall ne'er, I ween, find e.xit more. 
In each a slender m.eal was laid, 
Of roots, of water, and of bread: 
By each, in Benedictine dress. 
Two haggard monks stood motionless; 
Who, holding high a blazing torch, 
Show'd the grim entrance of the porch: 
Reflecting back the smoky beam. 
The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
Hewn stones and cement were display'^ 
And building tools in order laid. 



^1 



MARM/ON. 



61 



XXIV. 

These executioners were chose, 
As men wlio were with mankind foes, 
And with despite and envy fired, 
Into the cloister had retired ; 

Or who, m desperate doabt of grace, 
Strove, by deep penance, to efface 

Of some foul crime the stain ; 
For, as the vassals of her will, 
Such men the Church selected still, 
As either joy'd in doing ill, 

Or thought more grace to gain. 
If, in her cause, they wrestled down. 
Feelings their nature strove to own. 
By strange device were they brought there, 
They knew not how, nor knew not where. 

XXV. 

And now that blind oicl Abbot rose, 
To speak the Chapter's doom, 

On those the wall was to enclose, 
Alive, within the tomb,^^ 

But stopp'd, because that woeful Maid, 

Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 

Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain ; 

Her accents might no utterance gam ; 

Nought but imperfect murmurs slip 

From her convulsed and quivering lip ; 
'Twixt each attempt all was so still, 
You seem'd to hear a distant rill — 

'Twas ocean's swells and falls ; 
For though this vault of sin and fear 
Was to the sounding surge so near, 
A tempest there you scarce could hear, 
So massive were tha walls. 

XXVI. 

At length, an effort sent apart 
The blood that curdled to her heart, 

And light came to her eye. 
And color dawn'd upon her cheek, 
A kectic and a flutter'd streak. 
Like that Left on the Cheviot peak, 

By Autumn's stormy sky ; 
And vfhan her silence broke at length, 
Still as she spoke she gather' d strength, 

And arm'd herself to bear. 
It was a fearful siglit to see 
Such high resolve and constancy, 

In form so soft and fair. 

XXVII. 

" I speak not to implore your grace ; 
WeU know I, for one minute's space 

Successless might I sue: 
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ; 
For if a death of lingering pain. 



To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 

Vain are your masses too. — 
I listen'd to a traitor's tale, 
I left the convent and the veil ; 
For three long years I bow'd my pride, 
A horse-boy in his train to ride ; 
And well my folly's meed he gave, 
Who forfeited, to be his slave. 
All here, and all beyond the grave. — 
He saw young Clara's face more fair, 
He knew her of broad lands the heir, 
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore. 
And Constance was beloved no more.— 

'Tis an old tale, and often told ; 
But did my fate and wish agree. 

Ne'er had b?en r>:3d, in story old. 

Of maiden true betray'd for gold, 
That loved, or was avcnrcd, like me ! 



" The King approved his favorite's aim; 
In vain a rival barr'd his claim, 

Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 
For he attamts that rival's fame 
With treason's charge — and on they came. 

In mortal lists to fight. 
Their oaths are said, 
Their prayers are pray'd, 
Their lances in the rest are laid, 

They meet in mortal shock ; 
And, hark 1 the throng, with thimdering 

cry. 
Shout ' Marmion, Marmion ! to the sky, 

De Wilton to the block ! ' 
Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide 
When in the lists two champions ride. 

Say, was Heaven's justice here ! 
When, loyal in his love and faith, 
Wilton found overthrow or death, 

Beneath a traitor's spear ? 
How false the charge, how true he fell, 
This guilty packet best car. tell." — 
Then drew a pac'Ket from her breast, 
Paused, gather' d voice, and spoke the resS. 



" Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; 
To Whitby's convent fled the maid, 

The hated match to shun. 
' Ho ! shifts she thus.-" King Henry cried, 
' Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride. 

If she were sworn a nun.' 
One way remain'd — the King's command 
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land : 
I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd 

For Clara and for me : 



62 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear, 
He would to Whitby's shrine repair, 
And, by his drugs, my rival fair 
A saint in heaven should be. 
But ill the dastard kept his oath, 
Whose cowardice has undone us both. 



*• And now my tongue the secret tells, 
Not that remorse my bosom swells, 
But to assure my soul that none 
Shall ever wed with Marmion. 
Had fortune my last hope betray'd. 
This packet, to the King convey'd, 
Had given him to the headsman's stroke, 
Although my heart that instant broke. — 
Now, men of death, work forth your will, 
For I can suffer, and be still ; 
And come he slow, or come he fast, 
It is but Death who comes at last. 

XXXI. 

" Yet dread me, from my living tomb. 
Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! 
If Marmion's late remorse should wake, 
Full soon such vengeance will he take. 
That you shall wish the fiery Dane 
Had rather be&n your guest again. 
Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 
The altars quake, the crosier bends, 
The ire of a despotic King 
Rides forth upon destruction's wing ; 
Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep. 
Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep ; 
Some traveller then shall find my bones 
Whitening amid disjointed stones, 
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, 
Marvel such relics here should be." 

XXXII. 

Fix'd was her look, and stern her air: 
Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair ; 
The locks, that wont her brow to shade, 
Stared up erectly from her head ; 
Her figure seem'd tcrise more high ; 
Her voice, despair's wild energy 
Had given a tone cf prophecy. 
Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate ; 
With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
Gazed on the light inspired form. 
And listen'd for the avenging storm ; 
The judges felt the victim's dread ; 
No hand was moved, no word was said, 
Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, 
Raising his sightless balls to heaven : — 
•' Sister, let thy sorrows cease ; 
Sinful brother, part in peace I '' 



From that dire dungeon, place of doom. 
Of execution too, and tomb. 

Paced forth the judges three ; 
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 
The butcher-v/ork that there befell, 
When they had glided from the cell 

Of sin and misery. 



An hundred winding steps convey 
That conclave to the upper day ; 
But, ere they breathed the fresher air. 
They heard the shriekings of despair, 

And many a stifled groan; 
With speed their upward way they take, 
(Such speed as age and fear can make,) 
And cross'd themselves for terror's sake, 

As hurrying, tottering on : 
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, 
They seem'd to hear a dying groan, 
And bade the passing knell to toll 
For welfare of a parting soul. 
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ; 
To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd, 
His beads the wakeful hermit told. 
The Bamborough peasant raised his head. 
But slept ere half a prayer he said ; 
So far was heard the mighty knell. 
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 
Listed before, aside, behind. 
Then couch'd him down beside the hind, 
And quaked among the mountain fern, 
To hear that sound to dull and stern. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
THIRD. 

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.* 

Ashestiely Ettrick Forest, 

Like April morning clouds, that pass, 
With varying shadow, o'er the grass, 
And imitate, on field and furrow. 
Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow j 
Like streamlet of the mountain north, 
Now in a torrent racing forth. 
Now winding slow its silver train. 
And almost slumbering on the plain ; 



* A Judge of the Court of Sessions, af ten- 
wards, by title, Lord Kinnedder. He died 

lS23. 



I 



marauon: 



«3 



Like breezes of the autumn day, 
Whose voice inconstant dies away, 
And ever swells again as fast, 
When the ear deems its murmur past ; 
Thus various, my romantic theme 
Fhts, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. 
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 
Of Light and Shade's inconstant race ; 
Pleased, views the rivulet afar, 
Weaving its maze irregular ; 
And pleased, we listen as the breeze 
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees 
Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, 
Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale 1 

Need I to thee, dear Erskinc, tell 
I love the license all too well, 
In sounds now lowly, and now strong. 
To raise the desultory song ? — 
Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime, 
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme 
To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse 
For many an error cf the muse, 
Oft hast thou said, " If, still mis-spent, 
Thine hours to poetry are lent, 
Go, and to tame thy wandering course, 
Quaff from the fountain at the source ; 
Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb 
Immortal laurels ever bloom : 
Instructive of the feebler bard, 
Still from the grave their voice is heard , 
From them, and from the paths they 

show'd, 
Choose honor'd guide and practised road ; 
Nor ramble on through brake and maze, 
With harpers rude, of barbarous days. 

" Or deem'st thou not our later time 
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme ? 
Hast thou no elegiac verse 
2qx Brunswick's venerable hearse? 
What, not a line, a tear, a sigh. 
When valor bleeds for liberty ? — 
Oh, hero of that glorious time. 
When, with unrivall'd light sublime, — 
Though martial Austria, and though all 
The might of Russia, and the Gaul, 
Though banded Europe stood her foes — 
The star of Brandenburgh arose ! 
Thou could'st not live to see her beam 
Forever quench'd in Jena's stream. 
Lamented chief ! — it was not given 
To thee to change the doom of Heaven, 
And crush that 'dragon in its birth, 
Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 
Lamented chief I — not thine the power, 
To save in that presumptuous hour, 



When Prussia hurried to the field, 

And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield; 

Valor and skill 'twas thine to try, 

And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die, 

111 had it seem'd thy silver hair 

The last, the bitterest pang to share, 

For princedoms reft, ar.d scutcheons rives. 

And birthrights to usurpers given ; 

Thy land's, thy cliiklren's wrongs to feel, 

And witness woes thou could'st not heal' 

On thee relenting Heaven, bsstov.-s 

For honor'd life an honor'd close ; 

And when revolves, in time's sure changft, 

The hour of Germany's revenge, 

When, breathing fury for her sake. 

Some new Armenius shall awake 

Her .champion, ere he strike, shall come 

To whet his sword on Brunswick's tomb. 

" Or of the Red-Cross hero* teach, 
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach ; 
Alike to him, the sea, the shore. 
The brand, the bridle, or the oart 
Alike to him the war that calls 
Its votaries to the shatter'd v.alls, 
Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with 

blood. 
Against the Invincible made good ; 
Or that, whose thundering voice could wake 
Xlie silence of the polar lake. 
When stubborn Russ, and metal'd Swede, 
On the warp'd wave their death-game 

play'd ; 
Or that, where Vengeance and Affright 
Howl'd round the father of the fight. 
Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand. 
The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.f 

'*0r, if to touch such chord be thine, 
Restore the ancient tragic line. 
And emulate the notes that rung 
From the wild harp, which silent hung 
By silver Avon's holy shore. 
Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er; 
When she, the bold Enchantress, J came. 
With fearless hand and heart on flanie ! 
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasury 
And swept it with a kindred measure, 
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, 
Awakening at the inspired strain, 
Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again,* 

* Sir Sidney Smith. 

if Sir Ralph Abercromby. 

X Joanna Baillie* 



64 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thy friendship thus thy judgment wrong- 
ing, 
With praises not to me belonging, 
In task more meet for mightiest powers, 
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. 
But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd 
That secret power by all obey'd, 
Which warps net less the passive mind, 
Its source conceal'd or undefined ; 
Whether an impulse, that has birth 
Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 
One with our feelings and our powers, 
And rather part of us than ours ; 
Or whether fitlier term'd the sway 
Of habit form'd in early day ? 
Howe'er derived, its force confest 
Rules with despotic sway the breast, 
And drags us on by viewless chain, 
While taste and reason plead in vain. 
Look east, and ask the Belgian why, 
Beneath Batavia's sultry sky. 
He seeks not eager to inhale 
The freshness of the mountain gale, 
Content to rear his whiten'd wall 
Beside the dank and dull canal ? 
He'll say, from youth he loved to see 
The white sail gliding by the tree. 
Or see yon weatherbeaten hind, 
Whose sluggish herds before him wind. 
Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek 
His northern clime and kindred speak; 
Through England's laughing meads he 

goes, 
A.nd England's wealth around him flows ; 
Ask, if it would content him well, 
At ease in those gay plains to dwell, 
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 
^nd spires and forests intervene, 
And the neat cottage peeps between ? 
No ! not for these will he exchange 
His dark Lochaber's boundless range : 
Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 
Bennevis gray, and Garry's lake. 



Thus, while I ape the measure wild 
Of tales that charm'd me yet a child. 
Rude though they be, still with the chime 
Return the tlioughts of early time ; 
And feelings, roused in life's first day, 
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. 
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower. 
Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour. 
Though no broad river swept along. 
To claim, perchance, heroic song ; 
rhough sigh'd no groves in summer gale. 
To prompt of love a softer tale j 



Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed 

Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed ,' 

Yet was poetic impulse given, 

By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 

It was a barren scene, and wild. 

Where naked cliffs were rudely piled ; 

But ever and anon between 

Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ; 

And well the lonely infant knew 

Recesses where the wall-flower grew, 

And honey-suckle loved to crawl 

Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 

I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade 

The sun in all its round survey'd ; 

And still I thought that shatte'r'd tower* 

The mightiest work of human power ; 

And marvell'd as the aged hind 

With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind, 

Of forayers, who, with headlong force, 

Down from that strength had spurr'd theit 

horse, 
Their southern rapine to renew. 
Far in the distant Cheviots blue. 
And, home returning, fill'd the hall 
With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl. 
Methought that still with trump and clang 
The gateway's broken arches rang ; 
Methought grim features, seam'd with 

scars, 
Glared tluough the window's rusty bars, 
And ever, by the winter hearth. 
Old tales 1 heard of woe or mirth, 
Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, 
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 
Of patriot battles, won of old 
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold ; 
Of later fields of feud and fight. 
When, pouring from their Highland height, 
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 
Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
While stretch'd at length upon the floor, 
Again I fought each combat o'er. 
Pebbles and shells, in order laid, 
Tlie mimic ranks of war display'd ; 
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore. 
And still the scatter'd Southron fled befordc 

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, 
Anew, each kind familiar face. 
That brighten'd at our evening fire I 
From the thatch'd mansion's §;r*^--hair'd 

Sire,t 



* Smailholm lower, in Berwickshire, 
t Robert Scott of Sandyknows, the grand- 
father of the 1 oet. 



MARMION. 



6S! 



Wise without learning, plain and good, 
And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood ; 
Whose ej-e, in age, quick, clear, and keen, 
Show'd what in youth its glance had been ; 
Whose doom discording neighbors sought. 
Content with equity unbought ; 
To him the venerable Priest, 
Our frequent and familiar guest, 
Whose life and manners well could paint 
AUke the student and the saint ; 
Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke 
With gambol rude and timeless joke : 
For I was wayward, bold, and wild, 
.A self-will' d imp, a grandame's child ; 
But half a plague, and half a jest, 
Was still endured, beloved, caress'd. 

For me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask 
The classic poet's well-conn'd task? 
Nay, Erskine, nay — On the wild hill 
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still ; 
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, 
But freely let the woodbine twine, 
And leave untrimm'd the eglantine : 
Nay, my friend, nay — Since oft thy praise 
Hath given fresh vigor to my lays ; 
Since oft Jhy judgment could refine 
My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line ; 
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend. 
And in the minstrel spare the friend. 
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, 
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale I 



CANTO THIRD. 



THE HOSTEL, OR INN. 



The lifelong day Lord Marmion rode : 
The mountain path the Palmer show'd, 
By glen and streamlet winded still. 
Where stunted birches hid the rill. 
They might not choose the lowland road, 
For the Merse forayers were abroad, 
Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, 
Had scarcely fail'd to bar tiieir way. 
Oft on the trampling band, from crown 
Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down; 
On wing of jet, from his repose 
In the deep heath, the black-cock rose ; 
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe. 
Nor waited for the bending bow ; 
And when the stony path began. 
By which the naked peak they wan, 
tJp flew the snowy ptaimigan. 



The noon had long been pass'd before 
They gain'd the height of Lammermoor; 
Thence winding down the northern way 
Before them, at the close of day, 
Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay. 



No summons calls them to the tower. 

To spend the hospitable hour 

To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone; 

His cautious dame, in bower alone, 

Dreaded her castle to unclose, 

So late, to unknf)wn friends or foes. 

On througli the hamlet as they paced, 

Before a porch, whose front was graced 

With bush and flagon trimly placed, 

Lord Marmion drew his rein : 
The village inn seem'd large, though rude ; '< 
Its cheerful fire and hearty food 

Might well relieve his train. 
Down from their seats the horsemen 

^rung, 
With jingling spurs the court-yard rung ; 
They bind their horses to the stall, 
For forage, food, and firing call, 
And various clamor fills the hall : 
Weighing the labor with the cost, 
Toils everyAvhere the bustling host. 



Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze, 
Through the rude hostel might you gaze; 
Might see, where, m dark nook aloof, 
The rafters of the sooty roof 

Bore wealth o^ winter cheer ; 
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store. 
And gammons of the tusky boar, 

And savory haunch of deer. 
The chimney arch projected wide ; 
Above, around it, and beside. 

Were tools for housewives' hand ; 
Nor wanted, in that martial day, 
The miplements of Scottish fray. 

The buckler, lance, and brand. 
Beneath its shade, the place of state, 
On oaken settle Marmion sate, 
And view'd around the blazing hearth. 
His followers mix in noisy mirth ; 
Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
From ancient vessels ranged aside, 
Full actively their host supplied. 



Theirs was the glee of martial breast. 
And laughter theirs at little jest ; 
And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid, 
And mingle in the mirth they made; 



6(5 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For though, with men of high degree, 
The proudest of the proud was he, 
Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art 
To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
They love a captain to obey. 
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as Mzy ; 
With open hand, and brow as free, 
Love.- of wine and minstrelsy ; 
Ever the f.rst to scale a tower, 
As venturous in a lady's bower: — 
Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
From India's tires to Zembla's frost. 



Restmg upon his pilgrim staff, 

Right opposite the Palmer stood; 
His thin dark visage seen but half, 

Half hidden by his hood. 
Still fix'd on Marmion was his look. 
Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 

Strove by a frown to quell ; 
Br.t not fcr that, though more than orjce 
Full met their stern encountenng glance, 

The Palmer's visage fell. 



By fits less frequent from the crowd 
Was heard the burst of laughter loud ; 
For still, as squire and archer stared 
On that dark face and matted beard. 

Their glee and game declined. 
All gazed at length in silence drear, 
Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear 
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, 

Thus whisper'd forth histmind : — 
" Saint Mary ! saw'st thou e'er such sight ? 
How pale his cheek, his eye how bright. 
Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light 

Glances beneath his cowl I 
Full on our Lord he sets his eye ; 
For his best palfrey, would not 1 

Endure that sullen scowl." 

VII. 

But Marmion, as to chase the awe 

Which thus had quell'd their hearts, who 

saw 
The ever-varying fire-light show 
That figure stern and face of woe, 

Now call'd upon a squire : — 
* Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay. 
To speed the lingering night away ? 

We slumber by the fire." — 

VIII. 

** So please you," thus the youth rejoin'd, 
** Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 



Ill may we hope to please your ear, 
Accustcm'd Constant's strains to hear.-. 
The harp full deftly can he strike, 
And wake the lover's lute alike ; 
To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush 
Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush, 
No nightingale her love-lorn tune 
More sweetly warbles to the mooii. 
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be, 
Detains from us his melodj'. 
Lavished on rocks, and billows sterr 
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. 
Now must I venture, as I may. 
To sing his favorite roundelay." 

IX. 

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 

Th'i air he chose was wild and sad , 

Such have I heard, in Scottish land. 

Rise from the busy harvest band. 

When falls before the mountaineer, 

On Lowland plains, the ripen'd car. 

Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, 

Now a wild chorus swells the song : 

Oft have I listen'd, and stood still, 

As it cam: soften'd up the hill, 

And deem'd it the lament of men 

Who languish'd for their native glen ; 

And thought how sad would be such souad 

On Susquehanna's swampy ground, 

Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake. 

Or wild Ontario's boundless lake. 

Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, 

Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again 1 



SONG. 

Where shall the lover rest. 

Whom liie fates sever 
From his true maiden's breast, 

Parted forever ? 
Where, through groves deep and high. 

Sounds the far billow, 
Where early violets die, 

Under the willow. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow. 

There, through the summer day, 

Cool streams are laving , 
There, while the tempests sway^ 

Scarce are boughs waving , 
There, thy rest shalt thou Uike, 

Parted* forever. 
Never again to wake. 

Never, never I 



MARMIOM. 



67 



CHORUS. 

ElcM loro, &c. Never, O never 1 

XI, 

Where shall the traitor rest, 

He, the deceiver. 
Who could win maiden's breast, 

Ruin, and leave her ? 
In the lost battle, 

Borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the dying. 

CHORUS. 

Eleii loro, &c. There shall he be lying. 
Her wing shall the eagle flap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 

Ere life be parted. 
Shame and dishonor sit 

By his grave ever. 
Blessing shall hallow it, — 

Never, O never! 



£/e» loro, &c. 



CHORUS. 

Never, O never I 

XII. 



It ceased, the melancholy sound ; 
And silence sunk on all around. 
The air was sad ; but sadder still 

It fell on Marmion's ear, 
And plain'd as if disgrace and ill, 

And shameful death, were near. 
He drew his mantle past his face, 

Between it and the band. 
And rested with his head a space, 

Reclining on his hand. 
His thoughts I scan not ; but I ween, 
That, could their import have been seen, 
The meanest groom in all the hall. 
That e'er tied courser to a stall, 
Would scarce have wish'd to be their prey. 
For Lutterward and Fontenaye. 

XIII. 
'High minds, of native pride and force. 
Most deeply .feel thy pangs. Remorse ! 
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have. 
Thou art the torturer of the brave ! 
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel 
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, 
Even while they writhe beneath the smart 
Of civil cc?iflict in the heart. 
For soon Lord Marmion raised his head. 
And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,— 
" Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 
SeeM'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, 



Such as in nunneries they toU 
For some departing sister's soul ? 

Say, what may this portend ? " — 
Then first the Palmer silence broke, 
(The livelong day he had not spoke,) 

" The death of a dear friend." ^* 

XIV. 

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
Ne'er changed in worst extremity ; 
Marmion, whose soul could scantly brookj 
Even from his King, a haughty look ; 
Whose accent of command controll'd, 
In camps, the boldest of the bold — 
Thought, look, and utterance fail'd him 

now, 
Fall'n was his glance, and flush'd his brow; 

For either in the tone, 
Or something in the Paimer's lock, 
So full upon his conscience strook, 

That answer he found none. 
Thus oft it haps, that when within 
They shrink at sense of secret sin, 

A feather daunts the brave ; 
A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, 
And proudest princes vail their eyes 

Before their meanest slave. 

XV. 

Well might he falter !— By his aid 

Was Constance Beverley betray'd. 

Not that he augur'd of the doom, 

Which on the living closed the tomb: 

But, tired to hear the desperate maid 

Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid; 

And wroth, because, in wild despair, 

She practised on the life of Clare j 

Its fugitive the Church he gave, 

Though not a victim, but a slave; 

And deem'd restraint in convent strange 

Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge. 

Himself, proud Henry's favorite peer, 

Held Romish thunders idle fear. 

Secure his pardon he might hold, 

For some slight mulct of penance-gold. 

This judging, he gave secret way. 

When the stern priests surprised their prey. 

His train but deem'd the favorite page 

Was left behind, to spare his age ; 

Or other if they deem'd, none dared 

To mutter what he thought and heard: 

Woe to the vassal, who durst pry 

Into Lord Marmion's privacy 1 



His conscience slept — he deern'd her well, 
And safe secured in distant cell ; 



es 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But, waktn'd by her favorite lay, 

And that strange Palmer's boding say, 
That fell so ominous and drear, 
Full on the object of his fear, 
To aid remorse's venom'd throes, 
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose; 
And Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd, 
All lovely on his soul return'd ; 
Lovely as when, at treacherous call, 
She left her convent's peaceful wall 
Crimson'd with shame, v/ith terror mute, 
Dreading alike escape, pursuit, 
Till love, victorious o'er alarms. 
Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 



" Alas ! " he thought, " how changed that 

mien ! 
How changed these timid looks have been, 
Since years of guilt, and of disguise, 
Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her eyes ! 
No more of virgin terror speaks 
The blood that mantles in her cheeks ; 
Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, 
Frenzy for juy, for grief despair ; 
And i the caase--for whom were given 
Her peac .:n earth, her hopes in heaven !— 
Would,'' tn:ught he, as the picture grows, 
" I on .ts staiK naa left trie rose I 
Oh, why sh;aid man's success remove 
The very charms that wake his love ! 
Her convent's peaceful solitude 
Is n,w a pr.son naish and rude. 
And, pent within the narrow cell, 
How will ner spirit chafe and swell ! 
How orooK tr.e stern monastic laws! 
The oenance how — and I the cause ! 



Vi = 



scourge — percnance 



And twice he rose to cry, " To horse ! " — 
And twice his Sovereign's mandate came. 
Like damp upon a kindling flame ; 
And twice he thought, " Gave I not charge 
She should be safe, though not at large ? 
They durst not, for their island, shred 
One^^'olJen rin?let from her head." 



While thus in Marmion's bosom strove 
Repentance and reviving love, 
Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway 
I've seen Loch Vennachar obey. 
Their Host the Palmer's speech had heard, 
And, talkative, took up the word : 
" Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray 
From Scotland's simple land away, 
To visit realms afar. 



Full often learn the art to know 

Of future weal, or future woe, 

By word, or sign, or star ; 
Yet might a knight his fortune hear, 
If, knight-like, he despises fear, 
Not far from hence ;— if fathers old 
Aright our hamlet legend told." — 
These broken words the menials move, 
(For n.arveis stiii the vulgar love,) 
And, Marmion giving hcense cold, 
His tale ths host thus gladly fold :— 



THE host's tale 
'' A Clerk could tell what years have fioWB 
Since Alexander fiil'd our throne, 
(Third monarch of that warlike name,) 
And eke the time when here he came 
To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord ; 
A braver never diew a sword ; 
A wiser never, at th . hour 
Of midnight, spcke tht word of power; 
The same, whom ancient records call 
The founder of the Goblin Hall.^^ 
I would, Sir Knight, ycu/ ionger stay 
Gave you that c2.ve,T. tc survey. 
Of lofty roof, and ample size, 
Beneath tha castle deep it lies : 
To hew the living reck profound, 
The floor to pave, the arch to round. 
There never toil'd a mortal arm. 
It all was wrought by word and charm j 
And I have heard my grandsire say, 
That the wild clamor and affray 
Of those dread artisans of hell, 
Who labor'd under Hugo's spell. 
Sounded as loud as ocean's war, 
Among the caverns of Dunbar. 



" The King Lord Gifford's castle sought, 
Deep laboring with uncertain thought ; 
Even then he muster'd all his host. 
To meet upon the western coast : 
For Norse and Danish galleys plied 
Their oars within the frith of Clyde. 
There floated Haco's banner trim,37 
Above Norweyan warriors grim, 
Savage of heart, and large of limb ; 
Threatening both continent and isle, 
Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle. 
Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground, 
Heard Alexander's bugle sound, 
And tarried not his garb to change. 
But, in his wizard habit strange, 
Came forth, — a quaint and fearful sight; 
His mantle lined with fox-skins white ; 



MARMION. 



69 



His high and wrinkled forehead bore 

A pointed cap, such as of yore 

Clerks say that Pharaoh's Magi wore; 

His shoes were mark'd with cross and spell, 

Upon his breast a pentacle ; ^" 

His zone, of virgin parchment thin, 

Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin, 

Bore many a planetary sign, 

Combust, and retrograde, and trine ; 

And in his hand he held prepared, 

A naked sword without a guard. 



• Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
Had mark'd strange lines upon his face : 
Vigil and fast had worn him grim, 
His eyesight dazzled seem'd and dim, 
As one unused to upper day ; 
Even his own menials with dismay 
Beheld, Sir Knight, the gris'y Sire, 
In his unwonted wild attire ; 
Unwonted, for traditions run. 
He seldom thus beheld the sun. — 
' I know,' he said— his voice was hoarse, 
And broken seem'd its hollow force, — 
' I know the cause, although untold, 
Why the King seeks his vassal's hold: 
Vainly from me my liege would know 
His kingdom's future weal or woe ; 
But yet, if strong his arm and heart. 
His courage may do more than art. 



" ' Of middle air the demons proud, 
Who ride upon the racking cloud. 
Can read, in hx'd or wandering star, 
The issue of events afar ; 
But still their sullen aid withhold, 
Save when by mightier force controll'd. 
Such late 1 summon'd to my hall ; 
And though so potent was the call. 
That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
I deem'd a refuge from the spell, 
i'et, obstinate in silence still. 
The haughty demon mocks" my skill. 
But thou— who little know'st thy might, 
As born upon that blessed night 29 
When yawning graves, and dying groan, 
Proclaim'd hell's empire overthrown, — 
With untaught valor shall compel 
Response denied to magic spell.' 
' Gramercy,' quoth our Monarch free, 
* Place him but front to front with me, 
And, by this good and honor'd brand, 
The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, 
Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide, 
The demon shall a buffet bide.'— 



His bearing bold the wizard view'd, 

And thus, well pleased, his speech re. 

new'd . — 
' There spoke the blood of Malcolm !— 

mark • 
Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark. 
The rampart seek, whose circling crown 
Crests the ascent of yonder down ; 
A southern entrance shalt thou find ; 
There halt, and there thy bugle wind, 
And trust thine elfin foe to see. 
In guise of thy worst enemy : 
Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed-.. 
Upon him 1 and Saint George to speed ! 
If he go down, thou soon shalt know 
Whate'er these airy sprites can show ; — 
If thy heart fail thee in the strife, 
I am no warrant for thy life.' 

XXIII. 

" Soon as the midnight bell did ring, 
Alone, andarm'd, forth rode th^ King 
To that old camp's deserted round . 
Sir Knight, you well might mark the 

mound. 
Left hand the town, — the Pictish race, 
The trench, long since, in blood did trace ; 
The moor around is brown and bare, 
The space within is green and fair. 
The spot our village children know, 
For there the earliest wild-fl wers grow ; 
But woe betide the wandering wight, 
That treads its circle m the night 1 
The breadth across, a bowshot clear, 
Gives ample space for full career . 
Opposed to the four points of heaven, 
By four deep gaps are entrance given, 
The southernmost our Mr narch past, 
Halted, and blew a gallant blast ; 
And on the north, withir the ring. 
Appear'd the form of England's King, 
Who then, a thousand leagues afar, 
In Palestine waged holy war : 
Yet arms like England's did he wield^ 
Alike the leopards in the shield. 
Alike his Syrian courser's frame. 
The rider's length of limb the same: 
Long afterwards did Scotland know. 
Fell Edward* was her deadliest foe. 

XXIV. 

" The vision made our Monarch start. 
But soon he mann'd his noble heart, 
And in the first career they ran. 
The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man ; 



• Edward I. of England. 



70 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Vex. did a splinter oi his lance 
Through Alexander's visor glance, 
And razed the skin— a puny wound. 
The King, light leaping to the gi-ound, 
A'lth naked blade his phantom foe 
Compeli'd the future war to show. 
Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, 
'Vhere still gigantic bones remain, 

.Vlemoriai of the Danish war ; 
dimself he saw, amid the field, 
On high his brand.sh'd war-axe wield, 

And strike proud Haco from his car, 
While all around the shadowy Kings 
Denmark's grim ra'ens rower'd their wings. 
Tis said, that, in that awful night, 
Remoter visions met his sight. 
Foreshowing future conquests far, 
When our sons' sons wage northern war; 
A royal city, tower and spire, 
Redden' d the midnight sky with f.re, 
And shouting crews her navy bore. 
Triumphant, to the victor shore.* 
Such signs may learned clerks explain, 
They pass the w-t of simple swain. 



" The joyful King turn'd home again, 
Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane; 
But yearly, when return'd the night 
Of his strange combat with the sprite, 

His wound must bleed and smart; 
Lord GiffofG then vvould gibing say, 
' Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay 

The penance of your start.' 
Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave, 
King Alexander fills his grave, 

Our Lady give him rest! 
Yet still the knightly spear and shield 
The Elfin Warrior doth wield. 

Upon the brown hill's breas-t ;'*° 
And many a knight hath proved his chance, 
In the charm'd ring to break a lance, 

But all have foully sped ; 
Save two, as legends tell, and they 
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.— 

Gentles, my tale is said." 

XXVI, 

The quaighs t were deep, the liquor strong, 
And on the tale the yeoman-throng 
Had made a comment sage and long. 

But Marmion gave a sign : 
And, with their lord, the squires retire ; 
The rest, around the hostel fire, 



* An allusion to the battle of Copenhagen, 
1801. 
t Qimigh, SI wooden cup. 



Their drowsy limbs recline : 
For pillow, underneath each head, 
The quiver and the targe were laid. 
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor, 
Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore : 
The dying flame, in fitful change. 
Threw on the group its shadows strange. 

XXVII. 

Apart, and nestling in the hay 
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace li^y ; 
Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen 
The foldings of his mantle green : 
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream, 
Of sport by thicket, or by stream. 
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, 
Or, lighter yet, of ladye's love. 
A cautious tread his slumber broke, 
And, close beside him, when he woke, 
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom. 
Stood a tall form, with nodding plume; 
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew. 
His master Mannion's voice he knew. 

XXVIII. 
— " Fitz-Eustace ! rise, I cannot rest ; 
Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, 
And graver thoughts have chafed my 

mood 
The air must cccl my feverish blood ; 
And fain would I ride forth, to see 
The scene of Elfin chivalry. 
Arise, and saddle me my steed ; 
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed 
Thou dost not reuse these drowsy slaves; 
I would not, that the prating knaves 
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, 
That I could credit such a tale." — 
Then softly clown the steps they slid^ 
Eustace the stable-door undid, 
And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd, 
While, whispering, thus the Baron said :— 

XXIX. 

" Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell, 

That on the ho'ur when 1 was born. 
Saint George, who graced my sire's cha 

pelle, 
Down from his steed of marble.fell, 

A weary wight forljrn 1 
The flattering chaplains all agree, 
The champion left his steed to me. 
I would, the omen's truth to show. 
That I could meet this Elfin Foe ! 
Blithe would 1 battle, for the right 
To ask one question at the sprite : — 
Vain thought 1 for elves, if elves there be, 
j An empty race, by fount or sea. 



MARMION- 



71 



To dashing waters dance and sing, 
Or round the green oak wheel their ring. 
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, 
And from the hostel slowly rode. 



Fitz-Eustace f ollow'd him abroad, 
And mark'd him pace the village road, 

And listen'd to his horse's tramp, 
Till, by the lessening sound. 

He judged that of the Pictish camp 
Lord Marraion sough: the round. 
Wonder it seem'd, in the squire's eyes, 
That one, so wary held, and wise, — 
Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received 
For gospel, what the church believed, — 

Should, stirr'd by idle tale. 
Ride forth m silence of the night, 
As hoping half to meet a sprite, 

Array'd in plate and mail. 
For little did Fitz-Eustace know, 
That passions in contending flow, 

Unfix the strongest mind , 
Wearied from d'^ubt to doubt to flee, 
We welcome fondly credulity. 

Guide confident, ihoush blind- 



Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared. 
But, patient, waited till he heard. 
At distance, prick'd to utmost speed, 
The foot-tramp of a flying steed, 

Come town-ward rushing on ; 
First, dead, as if on turf it trode. 
Then, clattenng on the village road,— 
[n other pace than forth he yode,* 

Return'd Lord Marmion. 
Down hastily he sprung from selle, 
And, in n:s haste, wellnigh he fell ; 
"xo the squire's hand the rein he threw, 
And spcke no word as he withdrew : 
But yet the moonlight did betray, 
The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay ; 
And plam;y might Fitz-Eustace see, 
8y stains upon the charger's knee, 
And his left side, that on the moor 
He had net kept his footing sure, 
long musing on these wondrous signs, 
At length to rest the squire reclines, 
Broken and short; for still, between, 
iVould dreams of terror mtervene : 
Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark 
The first notes of the morning lark. 

• Ytdct used by old poets for went. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FOURTH. 

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.+ 

Ashestiely FJtrick Fore3£< 
An ancient Minstrel sagely sa-d, 
" Where is the life which late v.e led? " 
That motley clown in Arden wood, 
Whom humorous Jacques with envy 

view'd. 
Not even that clown could amplify, 
On this trite text, so long as ]. 
Eleven years we now may tell, 
Since we have known each other well ; 
Since, riding side by side, our hand 
First drew the voluntary brand, 
And sure, through many a varied scene^ 
Unkindness never came between. 
Away these winged years have fiown, 
To join the mass of ages gene ; 
And though deep mark'd, like all below, 
With chequer'd shades cf joy and woe ; 
Though thou o'er realrp.s and seas hast 

ranged, 
Mark'd cities lost, and enipires c'nanged. 
While here, at home, my narrower ken 
Somewhat of manners saw, and men; 
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, 
Fever'd the progress of these years, 
Yet novv', days, weeks, and months, but 

seem 
The recollection of a dream, 
So still we glide down to the sea 
Of fathomless eternity. 

Even now it scarcely seems a day, 
Since first I tuned this idle lay; 
A task so often thrown aside, 
When leisure graver cares denied, 
That now, November's dreary gale, 
Whose voice inspired my opening tale. 
That same November gale once more 
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. 
Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky, 
Once more our naked birches sigh, 
And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen, 
Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again : 
And mountain dark, and flooded mead, 
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 
Earlier than wont along the sky, 
Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists fly i 
The shepherd, who in summer sun, 
Had something of our envy won. 



t James Skene, Esq., o! Rubislaw, Aba«> 
deenshire. 



72 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As thou with pencil, I with pen, 

The features traced of hill and glen ; — 

He who, outstretch' d the live-long day, 

At ease among the heath-tlowers lay, 

View'd the light clouds with vacant look. 

Or slamber'd o'er his tatter'd book, 

Or idly busied him to guide 

His angle o'er the lessen'd tide ; — 

At midnight now, the snowy plain 

Finds sterner labor for the swain. 

When red hath set the beamless sun, 
Through heavy vapors dark and dun ; 
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, 
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm 
HurHng the hail, and sleeted rain. 
Against the casement's tinkling pane ; 
The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, 
To shelter in the brake and rocks, 
Are warnings which the shepherd ask 
To dismal and to dangerous task. 
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain. 
The blast may sink in mellowing rain ; 
Till, dark above, and white below, 
Decided drives the flaky snow. 
And forth the hardy swain must go. 
Long, with dejected lock and whine, 
To leave his hearth his dogs repine ; 
Whistling and cheering them to aid, 
Around his back he wreathes the plaid : 
His flock he gathers, and he guides. 
To open downs, and mountain sides. 
Where, fiercest though the tempest blow, 
Least deeply lies the drift below. 
The blast, that whistles o'er the fells. 
Stiffens his locks to icicles ; 
Oft he looks back, while streaming far, 
His cottage window seems a star, — 
Loses its feeble gleam, — and then 
Turns patient to the blast again, 
And, facing to the tempest's sweep. 
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. 
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail. 
Benumbing death is in the gale : 
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown 
Close to the hut, no more his own. 
Close to the aid he sought in vain. 
The morn may find the stiffen'd swain '.*>'*■ 
The widow sees, at dawning pale, 
His orphans raise their feeble wail ; 
And, close beside him, m the snow. 
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 
Coftches upon his master's breast. 
And licks his cheek to break his rest. 

Who envies now the shepherd's lot, 
His healthy fare, his rural cot. 



His summer couch by greenwood tree, 
His rustic kirn's * loud revelry, 
His native hill-notes, tuned on high, 
To Marion of the blithesome eye ; 
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, 
And all Arcadia's golden creed ? 

Changes not so with us, my Skene, 
Of human life the varying scene ? 
Our youthful summer oft we see 
Dance by on wings of game and glee. 
While the dark storn-i reserves its rage, 
Againsit the winter of our age : 
As he, the ancient Chief of Troy, 
His manhood spent in peace and joy ; 
But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, 
Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 
Then happy those, since each must drain. 
His share of pleasure, share of pain, — 
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, 
To whom the mingled cup is given ; 
Whose lenient sorrows find relief. 
Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. 
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, 
When thou of late, wert docm'd to 

twine, — 
Just when thy bridal hour was by,— 
The cypress with the myrtle tie. 
just on thy bride her Sire had smiled, 
And bless'd the union of his child, 
When love must change its joyous cheer 
And wipe affection's filial tear. 
Nor did the actions next his end, 
Speak more the father than the friend. 
Scarce had lamented Forbes ^^ paid 
The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; 
The tale of friendship scarce was told. 
Ere the narrator's heart was cold — 
Far may we searcli before we find 
A heart so manly and so kind' 
But not around his honor'd urn. 
Shall friends alone and kindred mourn ; 
The thousand eyes his care had dried. 
Pour at his name a bitter tide ; 
And frequent falls the grateful dew, 
For benefits the world ne'er knew. 
If mortal charity dare claim 
The Almighty's attributed name. 
Inscribe above his mouldering clay, 
" The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.** 
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem 
My verse intrudes on this sad theme ; 
For sacred v/as the pen that wrote, 
" Tliy father's friend forget thou not : ** 



• Scottish liarvest-homc. 



MARMION. 



73 



And grateful title may I plead, 
For many a kindly word and deed, 
To bring my tribute to his grave : — 
'Tis little — but 'tis all I have. 

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain 
Recalls our summer walks again ; 
When, doing nought, — and, to speak true, 
Not anxious to find aught to do, — 
The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 
While oft our talk its topic changed, 
And, desultory as our way, 
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay. 
Even when it flagg'd, as oft will chance, 
No effort made to break its trance, 
We could right pleasantly pursue 
Our sports in social silence too ; 
Thou bravely laboring to portray 
The blighted oak's fantastic spray ; 
I spelling o'er, with much delight, 
The legend of that antique knight, 
Tirante by name, yclep'd the White. 
At either's feet a trusty squire, 
Pandour and Camp,* with eyes of fire. 
Jealous, each other's motions view'd, 
And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud. 
The laverock t whistled from the cloud ; 
The stream was lively, but not loud ; 
From the whitethorn the May-flower shed 
Its dewy fragrance round our head: 
Not Ariel lived more merrily 
Under the blossom'd bough, than we. 

And blithesome nights, too, have been 
ours, 
When Winter stript the summer's bowers. 
Careless we heard, what now 1 hear. 
The wild blast sighing deep and drear, 
When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd 

. gay, 

And ladies tuned the lovely lay ; 

And he was held a laggard soul. 

Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. 

Then he, whose absence we deplore, f 

Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, 

The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more ; 

And thou, and I, and dear loved R ,§ 

And one whose name I may not say, — 

For not mimosa's tender tree 

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he, — 

In merry chorus well combined, 

With laughter drown'd the whistling wind. 



* A favorite bull-terrier of Sir Walter's. 

\ Laverock, the lark. 

X Colin Mackenzie, of Portmore. 

§ Sir William Rae, Bart., of St. Catharine's. 



Mirth was within ; and Care Mrithout 
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. 
Not but amid the buxom scene 
Some grave discourse might intervene — 
Of the good horse that bore him best, 
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest : 
For, like mad Tom's, || our chief est care, 
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. 
Such nights we've had ; and, though th« 

game 
Of manhood be more sober tame. 
And though the field-day, or the drill, 
Seem less important now— yet still 
Such may we hope to share again. 
The^prightly thought inspires my strain! 
And mark, how, like a horseman true, 
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. 



CANTO FOURTH. 



THE CAMP. 



Eustace, I said, did blithely mark 
The first notes of the merry lark. 
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew, 
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew. 
And with their light and lively call. 
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. 
Whistling they came, and free of heart, 

But soon their mood was changed ; 
Complaint was heard on every part. 

Of something disarranged. 
Some clamor'd loud for armor lost ; 
Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host ; 
" By Becket's bones," cried one, " 1 fear, 
That some false Scot has stolen my 

spear ! " — 
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second 

squire. 
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire ; 
Although the rated horse-boy sware. 
Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. 
While chafed the impatient squire like 

thunder. 
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder, — 
" Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all! 
Bevis lies dying in his stall : 
To Marmion who the plight dare tell, 
Of the good steed he loves so well ? " 
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw 
The charger panting on his straw; 



II Common name for an idiot; assumed by 
Edgar in Kmg Lear. 



74 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Till one, who would seem wisest, cried — 
" What else but evil could betide, 
With that cursed Palmer for our guide ? 
Better we had through mire and bush 
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush." ^^ 
I', 
Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd, 

Nor wliolly understood, 
His comrades' clamorous plaints sup- 
press'd ; 
He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought, 
And found deep plunged in gloomy 
thought, 
And did his tale display 
Simply as if he knew of nought * 
To cause such disarray. 
Lord Marmion gave attention cold, 
Nor marvell'd at the wonders told, — 
Pass'd them as accidents of course, 
And bade his clarions sound to horse. 

in. 
Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 
Had reckon'd with their Scottish host; 
And, as the charge he cast and paid, 
" 111 thou deserv'st thy hire,'' he said; 
" Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight? 
Fairies have ridden him all the night, 

And left him in a foam ! 
I trust that soon a conjuring band, 
With English cross and blazing brand, 
Shall drive the devils from this land- 

To tlieir infernal home : 
For in this haunted den, I trow, 
All night they trample to and frc." 
The laughing host look'd on the hire, — 
" Gramercy, gentle southern squire. 
And if thou comest among the resL, 
With Scottish broadsword to be blest, 
Sharp be tlie brand, and sure the blow 
And short the pang to undergo." 
Here stay'd their talk, — for Marmion 
Gave now the signal to set on. 
The Palmer showing forth the way, 
They journey'd all the morning day. 

IV. 

The green-sward way was smooth and 

good. 
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's 

wood ; 
A forest glade, which, varying stil?. 
Here gave a view of dale and hill, 
There narrower closed, till, over-head, 
A vaulted screen the branches made. 
** A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said ; 



" Such as where errant-knights might se« 
Adventures of high chivalry ; 
Might meet some damsel flying fast, 
With hair unbound and looks aghast ; 
And smooth and level course were here, 
In her defence to break a spear. 
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells ; 
And oft, in such, the story tells, 
The damsel kiiid, from danger freed. 
Did grateful pay her champion's meed." 
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind: 
Perchance to show his lore design' d; 

For Eustace much had pored 
Upon a huge romantic tome, 
In the hall window of his home, 
Imprinted at the antique dome 

Of Caxton, or De Worde.* 
Therefore he spoke, — but spoke in vain, 
For Marmion answer'd nought again. 

V. 

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, 
In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 

Were heard to echo far ; 
Each ready archer grasp'd his bow. 
But by the flcurish'soon they know, 

They breathed no point of war. 
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band, 

Some opener ground to gain ; 
And scarce a furlong liad they rode, 
When thinner trees, receding, show'd 

A little woodland plain. 
Just in that advantageous glade, 
Thfc .'lalting troop a line had made, 
A'=^ forth from the opposing shade 

Issued a gallant train. 



First came the trumpets at whose clang 

So late tr,e forcsr eclioes rang ; 

On prancing steeds tliey forward press'd. 

With scarlet mantle, azure vest; 

Each at his trump a banner wore. 

Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore: 

Heralds an.l pursuivants, by name 

Bute, Islay. iVlarchmount, Rothsay, came, 

In painted tabards, proudly showing 

Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing, 

Attendant on a King-at-arms, 
Whose hand the armorial truncheon held 
That feudal strife had often quell'd, 

When wildest its alarms. 



* William Caxton was the earliest English 
printer ; born in Kent, a.d. 1412 ; Wynkeu-de 
Worde was his successor. 



MARMION. 



7S 



He was a man of middle age ; 
Ir. aspect manly, grave, and sage, 

As on King's errand come; 
Bvit in the glances of his eye, 
A penetrating, keen, and sly 

Expression found its home ; 
The flash of that satiric rage, 
Which, bursting on the early stage. 
Branded the vices of the age, 

And broke the keys of Rome. 
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced ; 
His cap of maintenance wa^ graced 

With the proud heron-plume. 
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and 
breast. 
Silk liousings swept the ground. 
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest, 

Embroider' d round and round. 
The double tressure might you see, 

First by Achaius borne. 
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, 
And gallant unicorn. 
So bright the King's armorial coat. 
That scarce the dazzled eye could note, 
In living colors, blazon'd brave, 
The Lion, which his title gave ; 
A train which well bescem'd his state, 
But all unarm'd, around him wait. 
Still is thy name in high account, 
And still thy verse has charms. 
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
■ Lord Lion King-at-arnis ! ^ 

VIII. 

Down from his horse did Marmion spring, 

Soon he saw the Lion-King ; 

For well the stately Baron knew 

To him such courtesy was due, 

Whom royal James himself had crown'd. 

And on his temples placed the round 

Of Scotland's ancient diadem : 
And wet his brow with hallow' d wine. 
And on his finger given to shine 

The emblematic gem. 
Their mutual greetings duly made, 
The Lion thus his message said : — 
" Though Scotland's King hath deeply 

swore 
Ne'er to knit faith v/ith Henry more 
And strictly hath forbad resort 
From England to his royal court; 
Yet, for he knows Lord ]\Iarmion's name. 
And honors much his warlike fame, 
My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack 
Of courtesy, to turn him back : 



And, by his order, I, your guide, 
Must lodging fit and fair provide. 
Till finds King James meet time to see 
The flov/er of English chivalry." 

IX. 

Though inly chafed at this delay, 
Lord Marmion bears it as he may. 
The Palmer, his mysterious guide, 
Beholding thus his place supplied. 

Sought to take leave in vain ; 
Strict was the Lion King's command. 
That none, who rode in Marmion's band. 

Should sever from the train : 
" England has here enow of spies 
In Lady Heron's witching eyes ; " 
To Marchmount thus, apart, he said. 
But fair pretext to Marmion made. 
The right-hand path they now decline. 
And trace against the stream the Tyne. 



At length up that v/ild dale they wind, 

Where Crichtoun Castle '■^ crowns the 
bank ; 
For there the Lion's care assign'd 

A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. 
That Castle rises on the steep 

Of the green vale of Tyne : 
And far beneath, where slow they creep, 
From pool to eddy, dark and deep, 
Where alders moist, and willows weep, 

You hear her streams repine. 
The towers in different ages rose ; 
Their various architecture shows 

The builders' various hands ; 
A mighty mass, that could oppose, 
When deadliest hatred fired its foes, 

The vengeful DouG:las bands. 



Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court 
But pens the lazy steer and sheep. 
Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep, 

Have been the minstrel's loved resort. 

Oft have I traced, within thy fort, 

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, 
Scutcheons of honor, or pretence, 

Quarter'd in old armorial sort, 
Remains of rude magnificence. 

Nor wholly yet had time defaced 
Thy lordly gallery fair ; 

Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, 

Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, 
Adorn thy ruin'd stair; 

Still rises unimpair'd below, 

The court-yard's graceful portico : 



76 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



Above its cornice, row and row 
Of fair hewn facets richly show 
Their pointed diamond form, 
Though there but houseless cattle go, 

To shield them from the storm. 
And, shuddering, still may we explore, 

Where oft whilom were captives pent, 
The darkness of thy Massy More ; 
Or, from thy grass-grown battlement. 
May trace, in undulating line. 
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 

XII. 

Another aspect Crichtoun show'd, 

As through its portals Marmion rode; 

But yet 'twas melancholy state 

Received him at the outer gate ; 

For none were in the Castle then, 

But women, boys, or aged men. 

With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame. 

To welcome noble Marmion, came ; 

Her son, a stripling twelve years old, 

Proffer'd the Baron's rem to held ; 

For each man that could draw a sword 

Had march' d that morning with their lord, 

Earl Adam Hepbunij-^^ he who died . 

On Flodden, by his sovereign's side. 

Long may his Lady look m vain ! 

She ne'er shall see his gallant train 

Come sweeping back through Crichtoun- 

Dean. 
'Twas a brav - race, before the name 
Of hated Bothwel! sta'.n'd their fame. 



And here iwo days did Marmion rest, 

With every rue ihat honor claims. 
Attended as the King's own guest: — 
Such the c mmand of Royal James, 
Who niarshairj then his land's array, 
Upon the 13 rough-moor that lay. 
Perchance ha would not foeman's eye 
Upon his gathering host should pry, 
Till full prepared was every band 
To march against the English land. 
Here wlnle \^^^■< dwelt, did Lindesay's wit 
Dft cheer the Baron's moodier fit ; 
And, m his tirn, he knew to prize 
Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,- 
Train d in the lore of Rome and Greece, 
And policies of war and peace. 



It clvanced, as fell the second night, 
That on the battlements they walk'd, 

And, by the slowly fading light, 
Of varying topics talk'd ; 



And, unaware, the Herald-bard 

Said, Marmion might his toil have spared. 

In travelling so far ; 
For that a messenger from heaven 
In vain to James had counsel given 

Against the English war ;'•-' 
And, closer question'd, thus he told 
A tale, which chronicles of old 
In Scottish story have enroll'd :— 



SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE 

" Of all the palaces so fair, 

Built for the royal dwelling, 
In Scotland, far beyond compare 

Linlithgow is excelling ; 
And in its park in jovial Jun-e, 
How sweet the merry linnet's tune. 

How blithe the blackbird's :ay ! 
The wild-buckbells ■'^ .'icm ferny brake, 
The coot dives merry en th: lake, 
The saddest heart might pleasure take 

To see all nature gay. 
But June is to our sovereign dear 
The heaviest month in ail the year : 
Too well his cause of grief you know, 
June saw his father's overthrow.49 
Woe to the traitors, who could bring 
The princely boy against his King ! 
Still in his conscience burns the sting. 
In offices as strict as Lent, 
King James's June is ever spent. 



" When last this ruthful month was come, 
And in Linlithgow's holy dome 

The King, as wont, was praying; 
While, for his royal father's soul. 
The chanters sung, the bells did toll, 

The Bishop mass was saying — 
For now the year brought round again 
The day the luckless king was slain — 
In Katharine's aisle the Monarch knelt. 
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt. 

And eyes with sorrow streaming ; 
Around him in their stalls of state. 
The Thistle's Knight-Ccmpanions sate, 

Their banners o'er them beaming. 
I too was there, and, sooth tr tell, 
Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell, 
Was watching where the sunbeams fell, 

Through the stain'd casement gleaming: 
But, while I mark'd what next befell, 

It seem'd as I were dreaming. 
Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight, 
In azure gown, with cincture white ; 



MAR^f/O.V. 



77 



His forehead bald, his head v/as bare, 
Down hung at length his yellow hsir.— 
Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord, 
I pledge to you my knightly word, 
That, when 1 saw his placid grace, 
His simple majesty of face, 
His solemn bearing, and his pace 

So stately gliding on, — 
Seein'd to me ne'er did Iminer paint 
So just an imae,^ of the Saint, 
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint,— 

The loved Apostle John 1 



•' He stepp'd before the Monarch's chair. 
And stood with rustic plainness there, 

And little reverence made ; 
Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent, 
But on the desk his arm he leant, 

And words like these hf said, 
In a low voice, but never tv^ne, 
So thrill'd through vein, and nerve and 

bone : — 
* My mother sent me from afar, 
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,— 

Woe waits on thine array ; 
If war thou wilt, of woman fair, 
Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 
James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware: 

God keep thee as he may ! ' 
The wondering Monarch seem'd to seek 

For answer, and found none; 
And when he raised his head to speak, 
The monitor was gone. 
The Marshal and myself had cast 
To stop him as he outward pass'd ; 
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, 

He vanish'd from our eyes, 
Like sunbeam on the billow cast, 

That glances but, and dies," 

XVIII. 

While Lindesay told his marvel strange. 

The twilight was so pale. 
He mark'd not Marmion's color change, 

While listening to the tale ; 
But, after a suspended pause. 
The Baron spoke : — " Of Nature's laws 

So strong I heid the force. 
That never superhuman cause 
Could e'er control their course. 
And, three days since, had judged your aim 
Was but to make your guest vour game. 
But I have seen, since past the Tweed, 
What much has changed my skeptic creed, 
And made me creditaught."— He staid. 
And seem'd to wish his words unsaid ; 



But, by that strong emotion press'd, 
Which prompts us to unload our breast, 

Even when discovery's pain, 
To Lindesay did at length unfold 
The tale his village host had told. 

At Gifford, to his train. 
Nought of the Palmer says he there, 
And nought of Constance, or of Clare ; 
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he 

seems 
To mention but as feverish dreams 



" In vain," said he, " to rest I spread 
My burning limbs, and couch'd my head: 

Fantastic thoughts return'd ; 
And, by their wild dominion led, 

My heart within me burn'd. 
So sore was the delirious goad, 
I took my steed, and forth I rode, 
And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 
Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold. 
The southern entrance I pass'd through, 
And halted, and my bugle blew. 
Methought an answer met my ear,— 
Yet was the blast so low and drear, 
So hollow, and so faintly blown, 
It might be echo of my own. 

XX. 

'* Thus judging, for a httle space 
I listen'd, ere I left the place ; 

But scarce could trust my eyes, 
Nor yet can think they served me true, 
When sudden in the ring I view, 
In form distinct of shape and hue, 

A mounted champion rise. — 
I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, • 
In single fight, and mix'd affiay. 
And ever, I myself may say, 

Have borne me as a knight ; 
But when this unexpected foe 
Seem'd starting from the gulf belowr,- •• 
1 care not though the truth I show, — 

I trembled with affright; 
And as 1 placed in rest my spear. 
My hand so shook for ve'-y fear, 

I scarce could couch it right, 

XXI. 

'' Why need my tongue the issue tell ? 
We ran our course, — my charger fell ;.— 
What could he 'gainst the shock of hefl ?-- 

I roll'd upon the plain. 
High o'er my head, with threatening hand| 
The spectre shook his naked brand, — 

Yet did the worst remain : 
My dazzled eyes I upward cast, — 
Not opening hell itself could blast 



73 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



Their sight, like what I saw ! 
Full on his face the moonbeam strook, — 
A face could never be mistook ! 
I knew the stern vindictive look, 

And hekl my breath for awe. 
I saw the face of one who, fled 
To foreign climes, has long been dead,— 

I well believe the last ; 
For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare 
A human warrior, with a glare. 

So grimly and so ghast. 
Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ; 
feut when to good Saint George I pray'd, 
(The first time e'er I ask'd his aid,) 

He plunged it in the sheath , 
And, on his courser mounting light, 
He seem'd to vanish from my sight: 
The moonbeam dropp'd, and deepest night 

Sunk down upon the heath. — 

'Twere long to tell what cause I have 
To know his face, that met me there, 

Call'd by his hatred from the grave, 
To cumber upper air : 
Dead or alive, good cause had he 
To be my mortal enemy.'' 

XXII. 

Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount ; 
Then, learn' d in story, 'gan recount 

Such chance had happ'd of old. 
When once, near Norham, there did fight 
A spectre fell of fiendish might, 
In likeness of a Scottish knight, 

With Brian Bulmer bold. 
And train'd him nigh to disallow 
The^aid of his baptismal vow. 
*' And such a phantom, too, 'tis said. 
With Highland broadsword, targe, and 
plaid. 

And fingers, red with gore. 
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, 
(Jr where the sable pine-trees shade 
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, 

Diomouchty, or Glenmore. 
And yet, whate'er such legends say, 
Of wak-like demon, ghost, or fay. 

On mountain, moor, or plain, 
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, 
True son of chivalry should hold 

These midnight terrors vain ; 
For seldom have such spirits pov/er 
To harm, save in the evil hour. 
When guilt we meditate within, 
Or harbor iinrepented sin.'' — 
Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside, 
And twice to clear his voice he tried. 

Then press'd Sir David's hand, — 



But nought, at length, in answer said ; 
And here their farther converse staid, 

Each ordering that his band 
Should bowne them with the rising day, 
To Scotland's camp to take their way. — 

Such was the King's command. 

XXIII. 

Early they took Dun-Edin's road. 
And I could trace each step they trode. 
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone, 
Lies on the path to me unknown. 
Much might it boast of storied lore ; 
But, passing such digression o'er, 
Suffice it that the route was laid 
Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
They pass'd the glen and scanty rill, 
And climb'd the opposing bank, until 
They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill. 
I XXIV. 
Blackford ! on' whose uncultured breast, 
Among the broom, and thorn, and 
whin, 
A truant-boy, I sought the nest. 
Or listed, as I lay at rest, 

While rose, on breezes thin. 
The murmur of the city crowd. 
And, from his steeple jangling loud, 

Saint Giles's mingling din. 
Now, from the summit to the plain. 
Waves all the hill with yellow grain ; 

And o'er the landscape as I look, 
Nought do I see unchanged remain, 
Save the rude cliffs and chiming hrook. 
To me they make a heavy moan, 
Of early friendships, past and gone. 

XXV. 

But different far the change has been, 

Since Marmion, from the crown 
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene 

Upon the bent so brown: 
Thousand pavilions, white as snow. 
Spread all the Borough-mccr5° below, 

Upland, and dale, and down : — 
A thousand did I say .'' I ween, 
Thousands on thousands there were scca 
That chequer'd all the heath b:tweei"i 

The streamlet and the tov^'n ; 
In crossing ranks extending far, 
Forming a camp irregular ; 
Oft giving wry, where still there stood 
Some relics of the old oak wood, 
That darkly huge did intervene, 
And tamed the glaring white with green J 
In these extended lines there lay 
A martial kingdom's vast array. 



M ARM ION. 



79 



XXVI. 

For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain, 
And from the Southern Redswire edge, 
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge ; 
From west to east, from south to north, 
Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 
Marmion might hear the mingled hum 
Of myriads up the mountain come; 
The horses' tramp, and tingling clank, 
Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank, 

And charger's shrilling neigh ; 
And see the shifting lines advance, 
While frequent fiash'd, from shield and 
lance, 

The sun's reflected ray. 
xxvii. 
Thin curling in the morning air. 
The wreaths of failing smoke declare 
To embers now the brands decay'd, 
Where the night-watch their fires had made. 
They saw, slow rolling on the plain. 
Full many a baggage-cart and wain, 
And dire artillery's clumsy car. 
By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war ; 
And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven,* 
And culverins which France had given. 
Ill-omen'd gift ! the guns remain 
The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 

XXVIII. 

Nor mark'd they less, where in the air 
A thousand streamers flaunted fair ; 

Various in shape, device, and hue, 

Green, sangume, purple, red, and blue. 
Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square, 
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there 

O'er the pavilions flevv^. 
Highest and midmost, was descried 
The royal banner floating wide ; 

The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight, 
F'ltch'd deeply in a massive stone, 
Which still in memory is shown. 

Vet bent beneath the standard's weight 
Whene'er the western wind unroll'd. 

With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold, 
.And gave to view the dazzling field, 
Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield. 

The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.^^ 
xxtx. 
Lord Marmion view'd the landscape 

bright, — 
He view'd it with a chief's delight, — 



* Seven culverins, so called from him who 
cast them. 



Until within him burn'd his heart. 

And ligiitning from his eye did part, 
A-s on the battle-day ; 

Such glance did falcon never dart, 
W^ien stooping on his prey. 
" Oh ! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, 
Thy King from warfare to dissuade 

Were but a vain essay : 
For, by St. George, were that host ni'ne, 
Not power infernal nor divine. 
Should once to peace my soul incline. 
Till I had dimm'd their armor's shine 

In glorious battle-fray ! " 
Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood : 
" Fair is the sight, — and yet 'tv/ere good, 

That kings woiild think withal, 
When peace and wealth their land has 

bless'd, 
'Tis better to sit still at rest, 

Than rise, perchance to fall." 

XXX. 

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd. 

For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. 
When sated with the martial show 
That peopled all the plain below, 
The wandering eye could o'er it go 
And mark the distant city glcw 

With gloomy splendor red ; 
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, 
That round her sable tu.-rets f.ow, 
The morning beams were shed. 
And tinged them with a lustre proud, 
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. 

Such dusky grandeur clothed the height. 

Where the huge Castle holds its state,- 
And all the steep slope down, 

Whose ridgy back heaves to tlie sky, 

Piled deep and massy, close and liigh. 
Mine owii romantic town ! 

But northward far, with purer blaze, 

On Ochil mountains fell the rays. 

And as each heathy top they kiss'd, 

It gleam'd a purple amethyst. 

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ; 

Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law r 
And, broad between them roll'd, 

The gallant Frith the eye might note 

Whose islands on its bosom float. 
Like emeralds chased in gold. 

Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent 

As if to give his rapture vent, 

The spur he to his charger lent, 
And raised his bridle hand, 

And, making deini-volte in air. 

Cried, " Where's the coward that would not 
dare 



So 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To fight for such a land ? " 
The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; 
Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee. 



Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud, 
Where mingled trump and clarion loud, 

And fife, and kettle-drum. 
And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 
And war-pipe with discordant cry, 
And cymbal clattering to the sky, 
Making wild music bold and high, 

Did up the mountain come; 
The whilst the bells, with distant chime, 
Merrily told the hour of prime, 
And thus the Lindesay spoke: 
" Thus clamor still the war-notes when 
The king to mass his way has ta'en, 
Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne, 

Or Chapel of Saint Rocq'ue. 
To you they speak of martial fame; 
But me remind of peaceful game, 

When blither was their cheer, 
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air, 
In signal none his steed should spare, 
But strive which foremost might repair 

To the downfall cf the deer. 



"Nor less," he said, — "when looking 

forth, 
I view yon Empress of the North 

Sit on her hilly throne; 
Her palace's imperial bowers, 
Her castle, proof to hostile powers, 
Her stately halls and holy towers — 

Nor less," he said, " 1 moan, 
To think what woe mischance may bring, 
And how these merry bells may ring 
The death-Qirge of our gallant king ; 

Or v/ith the 'larum call 
The burghers forth to watch and ward, 
'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard 

Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall. — 
But not for my presaging thought. 
Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought ! 

Lord M arm ion, I say nay : 
God is the guider of the field. 
He breaks the champion's spear and 
shield, — 

But thou thyself shalt say, 
When joins yon host in deadly stowre, 
That England's dames must weep in bower, 

Her monks the death-mass sing; 
For never saw'st thou such a power 

Led on by such a King." — 



And now, down winding to the plain, 
The barriers of the camp they gain, 

And there they made a stay. — 
There stays the Minstrel till he fling 
His hand o'er every Border string, 
And fit his harp the pomp to sing, 
Of Scotland's ancient Court and King, 

In the succeeding lay. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FIFTH. 

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.* 

Edinburgh. 
When dark Becembsr glooms the day, 
And takes our autumn joys away ; 
When short and scant the sunbeam throws, 
Upon the weary waste of sro-.vs, 
A cold and profitless regard, 
Like patron on a needy bard ; 
When silvan occupation's done, 
And o'er the chimney rests the gun, 
And hang, in idle trophy, near. 
The gam.e-pouch, 6shing-rod, and spear; 
When wiry terrier, rough and grim, 
And greyhound, with his length of limb, 
And pointer, now emplcy'd no more, 
Cumber our parlor's narrow floor ; 
When in his stall the impatient steed 
Is long condemned to rest and feed; 
When from our snow-encircled home, 
Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam. 
Since path is none, save that to bring 
The needful water from the spring; 
When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd 

o'er. 
Beguiles the dreary hour no more, 
And darkling politician, cross'd, 
Inveighs against the lingering, post. 
And answering housewife sore complains 
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains ; 
When such the country cheer, I come, 
Well pleased, to seek our city home : 
For converse, and for books, to change 
The Forest's melancholy range. 
And welcome, with renew'd delight. 
The busy day and social night. 

Not here need my desponding rhyme 
Lament the ravages of time. 
As erst by Newark's riven tov/ers, 
And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bovvers. 



* The learned editor of the " Gjecirrjens of 
Ancient English Romvincc." 



MARMION. 



8i 



True, — Caledonia's Queen is changed,^^ 
Since on her dusky summit ranged, 
Within its steepy limits pent, 
By bulwark, line, and battlement. 
And flanking towers, and laky flood, 
Guarded and garrison'd she stood, 
Denying entrance or resort. 
Save at each tall embattled port ; 
Above whose arch, suspended, hung 
Portcullis spiked with iron prong. 
That long is gone, — but not so long 
Since, early closed, and opening late, 
Tealous revolved the studded gate, 
\Vhose task, from eve to morning tide, 
A wacket churlishly supplied. 
Stern, then, and steel-girt was thy brow, 
Dun-Edin ! O, how alter'd now. 
When safe amid thy mountain court 
Thou sit'st, like Empress at her sport. 
And liberal, unconfined, and free. 
Flinging thy white arms to the sea. 
For thy dark cloud, with umber'd lower. 
That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower, 
Thou gleani'st against the western ray 
Ten thousand lines of brighter day. 

Not she, the Championess of old. 
In Spenser's magic tal? enroH'd, 
She, for the charmed spear renown'd. 
Which forced each knight to kiss the 

ground, — 
Not she more changed, when placed at rest, 
What time she was Malbecco's guest, 
She gave to flow her maiden vest ; 
When from the corslet's grasp relieved, 
Free to the sight her bosom heaved; 
Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, 
Erst hidden by the aventayle; 
And down her shoulders graceful roll'd. 
Her locks profuse, of paly gold. 
They who whilom, in midnight fight. 
Had marvell'd at her matchless might, 
No less her maiden charms approved. 
But looking liked, and liking loved. 
The sight could jealous pangs beguile, 
And charm Malbecco's cares a while; 
And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, 
Forgot his Columbella's claims, 
And passion, erst unknown, could gain 
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane ; 
Nor durst light Paridel advance. 
Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
She charm'd at once, and tamed tlie heart. 
Incomparable Britomarte I * 



* The Maiden Knight in Spenser's 
|i;een," book iii. canto g. 



' Fairy 



So thou, fair City ! disarray'd 
Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 
As stately seem'st, but lovelier far 
Than in that panoply of war. 
Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne 
Strength and security are flown ; 
Still, as of yore. Queen of the North ! 
Still canst tliou send thy children forth. 
Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call 
Thy burghers rose to man thy wall, 
Than now, in danger, shall be thine, 
Thy dauntless voluntary line; 
For fosse and turret proud to stand. 
Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. 
Thy thousands, trained to martial toil, 
Full red would stain their native soil, 
Ere from thy mural crown there fell 
The slightest knosp or pinnacle. 
And if it come, — as come it may, 
Dun-Ediii ! that eventful day, — 
Renown'd for hospitable deed. 
That virtue much with Heaven may plead, 
In patriarchal times whose care 
Descending angels deign'd to share ; 
That claim may wrestle blessings down 
On those who fight for The Good Town, 
Destined in every age to be 
Refuge of injured royalty ; 
Since first, when conquering York arose, 
To Henry meek sl*e gave repose,t 
Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe, 
Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw. 

Truce to these thoughts I — for, as they 
rise. 
How gladly I avert mine eyes. 
Bodings, or true or false, to change, 
For Fiction's fair romantic range. 
Or for tradition's dubious light. 
That hovers 'twixt the day and night: 
Dazzling alternately and dim, 
Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim, 
Knights, squires, and lovely dames* to see, 
Creation of my fantasy, 
Than gaze abroad on reeky fen. 
And make of mists invading men. 
Who loves not more tlie night of June 
Than dull December's gloomy noon ? 
The moonligiit than, the fog of frost.? 
And can we say, which cheats the most? 

But who shall teach my harp to gam 
A sound of the romantic strain. 



t Henry VI. of England, wlio sou^lit 
refuge in Scotland after the fatal battle oj 
Towton. "The Meek Usurper," see Gray. 



82 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere 

Cculd win the royal Henry's ear, 

Famed Beauclerc call'd, for that he loved 

The minstrel * and his lay approved? 

Who shall these lingering notes redeem, 

Decaying on Oblivion's stream ; 

Such notes as from the Breton tongue 

Marie t translated, Blondel sung? — 

O ! born, Time's ravage to repair, 

And make the dying muse thy care; 

Who, when his scythe her hoary foe 

Was poising for the final blow, 

The weapon from his liand could wring, 

And break his glass, and shear his wing, 

And bid, reviving in his strain. 

The gentle poet live again ; 

Thou, who canst give to lightest lay 

An un pedantic moral gay, 

Nor less the dullest theme bid flit 

On wings of unexpected wit ; 

In letters as in life approved, 

±Lxample honor'd, and beloved, — 

Dear Ellis ! to the bard impart 

A lesson of thy magic art, 

To win at once the head and heart, — 

At once to charm, instruct, and mend, 

My guide, my pattern, and my friend 1 

Such minstrel lesson to bestow 
Be long thy pleasing task, — but, O ! 
No more by thy example teach, 
— What few can practise, all can preach, — 
With even patience to endure 
Lingering disease, and painful cure, 
And boast affliction's pangs subdued 
By mild and manly fortitude. 
Enough, the lesson has been given : 
Forbid the repetition, Heaven ! 

Come listen, then ! for thou hast known, 
And loved tlie Minstrel's varying tone, 
Wha like his Border sires of old. 
Waked a wild measure rude and bold. 
Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain. 
With wonder heard the northern strain. 
Come listen ! bold in thy applause, 
The bard shall scorn pedantic laws ; 
And, as the ancient art could stain 
Achievements on thestorie^ pane. 
Irregularly traced and plann'd, 
But yet so glowing and so grand, — 
So shall he strive, in changeful hue. 
Field, feast, and combat, to renew. 



* Philip de Than. 

t Marie of France, who translated the 
" Lais" of Brittany into French. She resided 
at the Court of Henry III. of England, to 
whom she dedicated her book. 



And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, 
And all the pomp of chivalry. 



CANTO FIFTH 



THE COURT. 



The train has left the hills of Braid; 
The barrier guard have open made 
(So Lindesay bade) the palisade, 

That closed the tented ground ; 
Their men the warders backward drew, 
And carried pikes as they rode through^ 

Into its amph bound. 
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there, 
Upon the Southern band to stare, 
And envy with their wonder rose, 
To see such well-appointed foes ; 
Such length of shafts, such mighty bows, 
So huge, that many simply thought. 
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought ; 
And little deem'd their force to feel. 
Through links of mail, and plates of steel. 
When rattling upon Flodden vale, 
The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. 53 



Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
Glance every line and squadron through 
And much he marvell'd one small land 
Could marshal forth such various band; 

For men at-arms were here, 
Heavily sheathed ir mail and plate, 
Like iron cowers for strength and weight. 
On Flemish steeds of oone and height. 

With battle-axe and spear. 
Young knights and squires, a lighter tralo^ 
Practised their chargers on the plain, 
By aid of leg, of ha.nd, and rein. 

Each warlike feat to show. 
To pass, to wheel, the crcupe to gain, 
And high curvett, that not in vain 
The sword sway might descend amain 

On foeman's casque below. 
He saw the hardy burghers there 
March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,^* 

For vizor they wore none, 
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight ; 
But burnished were their ccrtlets bright, 
Their brigantines, and gorgets light, 

Like very silver shone. 
Long pikes they had for standing fight. 

Two-handed swords they wore. 
And many wielded mace of weight, 

And bucklers bright they bore. 



MARMION. 



83 



On foot the yeoman too, but dress' d 
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest, 

With iron quilted well ; 
Each at his back (a slender store) 
His forty days' provision bore, 

As feudal statutes tell. 
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,5S 
A crossbow there, a hagbut here, 

A dagger-knife, and brand. 
Sobir lie seeni'd, and sad of cheer, 
As loth lo leave his cottage dear, 

And march to foreign st.rand ; 
Or nrasing, who would guide his steer, 

To tnl *he fallow land. 
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye 
Did aught of dastard terror lie ; 

More dreadful far his ire. 
Than theirs, who, scorning danger's name. 
In eager mood to battle cam.c. 
Their valor like light straw on flame, 

A fierce but fading fire. 

IV. 

Not so the Borderer: — bred to war, 
He knew the battle's din afar. 

And joy'd to hear it swell. 
His peaceful day was slothful ease ; 
Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please 

Like the loud slogan yell. 
On active steed, with lance and blade, 
The light-arm'd pricker plied his trade, — 

Let nobles fight for fame ; 
Let vassals follow where they lead, 
Burghers to guard their townships bleed, 

But war's the Borderer's game. 
Their gain, their glory, their delight, 
To sleep the day, maraud the night. 

O'er mountam, moss, and moor ; 
Joyful to fight they took their way. 
Scarce caring who might win the da}'. 

Their booty was secure. 
These, as Lord Marmion's train pass'd by, 
Look'd on at first with careless eye, 
Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to know 
riie form and force of English bow. 
But when they saw the Lord array'd 
In splendid arms and rich brocade. 
Each Borderer to his kinsman said,— 

" Hist, Ringan! seest thou there! 
Canst guess v/hich road they'll homeward 

ride ? — 
O ! could we but on Border side. 
By Eusedale's glen, or Liddell's tide. 

Beset a prize so fair ! 
That fangless Lion, too, their guide, 
Might chance to lose his glistering hide ; 



Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied, 
Could make a kirtle rare." 



Next, Marmion mark'd the Celtic race, 
Of different language, form, and face, 

A various race of man ; 
Just then the Chiefs their tribes array'd, 
And wild and garish semblance made, 
The chequer'd trews, and belted plaid. 
And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd, 

To every varying clan ; 
Wild through their red or sable hair 
Look'd outltheir eyes with savage stare, 

On Marmion as he pass'd ; 
Their legs above the knee were bare ; 
The'ir frame was sinewy, short, and spare. 

And harden'd to the blast ; 
Of. taller race, the chiefs they own 
Were by the eagle's plumage known. 
The hunted red deer's undress'd hide 
Their hairy buskins well supplied ; 
The graceful bonnet deck'd their head : 
Back from their showlders hung the plaid ; 
A broadsword of unwieldy length, 
A dagger proved for edge and strength, 

A studded targe they wore. 
And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, O ! 
Short was the shaft, and weak the bow. 

To that which England bore. 
The Isles-men carried at tlieir backs 
The ancient Danish battle-axe. 
They raised a wild and wondering cry, 
As with his guide rode Marmion by. 
Loud were their clamoring tongues, as 

when 
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen. 
And, with their cries discordant mix'd, 
Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt. 



Thus through the Scottish camp they 

pass'd, 
And reach'd the City gate at last. 
Where all around, a wakeful guard, 
Arm'd burghers kept their watch and ward 
Well had they cause of jealous fear. 
When lay encamp'd, in field so near, 
The Borderer and th6 Mountaineer. 
As through the biisthn^ streets they go, 
All was alive with martial show : 
At every turn, with dinning clang. 
The armorer's anvil clash'd and rang ; 
Or toil'd the swarthy smith, to wheel 
The bar that arms the charger's heel ; 
Or axe, or falchion, to the side 
Of jarring grindstone was applied. 



84 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying 

pace, 
Through street, and lane, and market- 
place, 

Bore lance, or casque, or sword ; 
While burghers, with important face, 

Described each new-come lord, 
Discuss'd his lineage, told his name. 
His following, and his warlike fame. 
The Lion led to lodging meet, 
Which high o'erlook'd the crowded street ; 

There must the Baron rest, 
Till past the hour of vesper tide, 
And then to Holy-Rood must ride, — 

Such was the King's behest. 
Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 
A banquet rich, and costly wines, 

To Marmion and his train ;56 
And when the appointed hour succeeds, 
The Baron dons his peaceful weeds, 
And following Lindesay as he leads, 

The palace-halls they gain. 

VII. 

Old Holy-Rood rung merrily 
That night, with wassail, mirth, and glee ; • 
King James within her princely bower. 
Feasted the Chiefs of Scotland's power, 
Summon'd to spend the parting hour ; 
For he had charged, that his array 
Should southward march by break of day. 
Well loved that splendid monarch aye 

The banquet and the song, 
By day the tourney, and by night 
The merry dance, traced fast and light, 
The maskers quaint, the pageant bright, 

The revel loud and long. 
This feast outshone his banquets past, 
It was his blith st — and his last. 
The dazzling lamps, from gallery- gay, 
Cast on th- Court a dancing ray ; 
Here to the harp did minstrels sing ; 
There ladies touch'd a softer string ; 
With long-ear'd cap, and motley vest 
The licenced fool retail'd his jest ; 
His _ agic tricks the juggler plied ; 
At dice and draughts the gallants vied ; 
While some, in close recess apart, 
Courted the ladies of their heart. 

Nor courted them in vain ; 
For often, in the parting hour. 
Victorious Love asserts his power 

O'er coldness and disdain ; 
And flinty is her heart, can view 
To battle march a lover true — 
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 

Nor own her share of pain. 



Through this mix'd crowd of glee and game^ 
The King to greet Lord Marmion came, 

While, reverent, all made room. 
An easy task it was, J trow, 
King James's manly form to know. 
Although, his courtesy to show. 
He doff'd to Marmion bending low, 

His broider'd cap and plume. 
For royal was his garb and mien. 

His cloak, of crimson velvet piled, 

Trimm'd with the fur of marten wild, 
His vest of changeful satin sheen, 

The dazzled eye beguiled ; 
His gorgeous collar hung adown. 
Wrought with the badge of Scotland's 

crown. 
The thistle brave, of old renown : 
His trusty blade, Toledo right, 
Descended from a baldric bright ; 
White were his buskins, on the heel 
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel • 
His bonnet, all of crimson fair, 
Was button'd with a ruby rare : 
And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had seen 
A prince of such a noble mien. 



The monarch's form was middle, size ; 
For feat of strength, or exercise, 

Shaped in proportion fair ; 
And hazel was his eagle eye, 
And auburn of the darkest dye, 

His short curl'd beard and hair. 
Light was his footstep in the dance, 

And firm his stirrup in the lists ; 
And, oh ! he had that merry glance. 

That seldom lady's heart resists. 
Lightly from fair to fair he flew, 
\nd loved to plead, lament, and sue ;— 
'-Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain, 
5or monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 

I said he joy'd in banquet bower ; 
But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often strange,'* 
How suddenly his cheer would change, 

His look o'ercastand lower, 
If, in a sudden turn', he felt 
The pressure of his iron belt. 
That bound his breast in penance pain. 
In memory of his father slain.-'' 
Even so 'twas strange how, evermore, 
Soon as the passing pang was o'er 
Forward he rush'd, with double glee, 
Into the stream of revelry : 
Thus, dim-seen object of affright 
Startles the courser in his flight. 



MARMION. 



8S 



And half he halts, half springs aside ; 
But feels the quickening spur applied, 
And, straining on the tighten'd rein, 
Scours doubly swift o'er" hill and plain. 



O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway:^^ 

To Scotland's Court she came, 
To be a hostage for her lord. 
Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored, 
And with the King to make accord, 

Had sent his lovely dame. 
Nor to that lady free alone 
Did the gay King allegiance own ; 

For the fair Queen of France 
Sent him a turquois ring and glove. 
And charged him, as her knight and love. 

For her to break a lance -,-^9 
And strike three strokes with Scottish 

brand, 
And march three miles on Southron land. 
And bid the banners of his band 

In English breezes dance. 
And thus, for France's Queen he drest 
His manly limbs in mailed vest ; 
And thus admitted English fair 
His inmost counsels stil! to sh:)re; 
And thus for both, he madly plann'd 
The ruin of himself and land I 

And yet, the sooth to tell. 
Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen, 
Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and 
sheen. 

From Margaret's eyes that fell, — 
His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lith- 

gow's bower, 
All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour. 



The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, 

And weeps the weary day. 
The war against her native soil, 
Her monarch's risk in battle broil : — 
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while, 
Dame Heron rises with a smile 

Upon the harp to play. 
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 

The strings her fingers flew ; 
And as she touch'd and tuned them all, 
Even her bosom's rise and fall 

Was plainer given to view ; 
For, all for heat, was laid aside 
Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
And first she pitch'd her voice to sing. 
Then glanced her dark eye on the King, 
And then around the silent ring ; 



And laugh'd, and blush'd. and oft did say 

Her pretty oath, by Yea and Nay, 

She could not, would not, durst not play 1 

At length, upon the harp, with glee, 

Mingled with arch simplicity, 

A soft, yet lively air she rung, 

While thus the wily lady sung :— 

XII. 

LOCHINVAR. 

LADY heron's SONG, 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed was 

the best ; 
And save his good broadsword he weapons 

had none. 
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young 

Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not 

for stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford there 

was none ; 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride had consented, the gallant came 

late : 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
Wa5 to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
invar. 

So boldly he cnter'd the Netherby Hali, 
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and 

brothers, and all : 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on 

his sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never 

a word,) 
" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in 

war. 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 

Lochinvar ? '' — 

" I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you 

denied ;— 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs lika 

its tide — 
And now am I come, with this lost love of 

mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 

wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely 

by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvar." 



&6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The bride kiss'd the goblet • the knight took 

it up, 
He quaff 'd off the wine, and he threw down 

the cup. 
She look'd down to bkish, and she look'd up 

to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her 

eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could 

bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young 

Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her father 

did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his 

bonnet and plume ; 
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, '"Twcre 

better by far, 
To have match'd our fair cousin with young 

Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her 

ear, 
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the 

charger stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he 

swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, 

and scaur ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth 

young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 

Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 

rode and they ran. 
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie 

Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 

they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochinvar ? 

XIII, 

The Monarch o'er the siren hung 

And beat the measure as she sung ; 
And, pressing closer, and more near, 
He whisper'd praises in her ear. 
In loud applause the courtiers vied ; 
And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside. 

1 he witching dame to Marmion threw 
A glance, where seem'd to reign 

1 he pride that claims applauses due, 



And of her royai conquest too, 
A real or teign'd disdain : 
Familiar was the look, and told, 
Marmion and she were :riends of old. 
The King observed their meeting eyes. 
With something like displeased surprise ; 
For monarchs ill can rivals broolc. 
Even in a word, or smile, or look. 
Straight took he forth the parchment broad 
Which Marmion's high comm'.^sion show'd: 
" Our Borders sack'd by many a raid. 
Our peaceful liege-men robb'd," he said : 
" On day of truce our Warden slain. 
Stout Barton kill'd, his vassals ta'en — 
Unworthy were we here to reign. 
Should these for vengeance cry in vain; 
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Our herald has to Henry borne." 

XIV. 

He paused, and led where Douglas stood, 
And with stern eye the pageant view'd : 
I mean that Douglas, si.xth of yore, 
Who coronet of Angus bore. 
And, when his biood and heart were high, 
Did the third James in camp defy, 
And all his minions led to die 

On Lauder's dreary flat : 
Princes and favorites long grew tame. 
And trembled at the homely name 

Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat ;6° 
The same who left the dusky vale 
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 

Its dungeons, and its towers. 
Where Bothvvell's turrets brave the air, 
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, 

To fix his princely bowers. 
Though now, in age. he had laid down 
His armor for the peaceful gown ^ 

And for a staff his brand, 
Yet often would flash forth the fire. 
That could, in youth, a monarch's ire 

And minion's pride withstand . 
And even that day, at council board, 

Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood, 

Against the war had Angus stood, 
And chafed his royal lord.^^ 

XV. 

His giant-form, like ruin'd tower, 
Though fall'n its muscles' brawny vaunt, 
Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt 

Seom'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower: 
His locks and beard in silver grew ; 
His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 



MAKMIOjV. 



8r 



Near Douglas when the Monarch stood, 
His bitter speech he thus pursued : 
*' Lord Marmion, mce these letters say- 
That in the North you needs must stay, 

While slightest hopes of peace remain, 
Uncourteous speech it were, and stern. 
To say — Return to Lindisfarne, 

Until ly herald come again. — 
Then rest you in Tantallon Hold ; ^^ 
Your host shall be the Douglas bold,— 
A. chief unlike his sires of old. 
He wears their motto on his blade,^^ 
Their blazon o'er his towers display'd ] 
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, 
More than to face his country's foes. 
And, I bethink me, by St. Stephen, 
But e'en this morn to me was given 
A prize, the first-fruits of the war, 
Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 

A bevy of the maids of Heaven. 
Under your guard, these holy maids 
Shall safe return to cloister shades, 
And, while they at Tantallon stay. 
Requiem for Cochran's soul may say." 
And, with the slaughter'd favorite's name. 
Across the Monarch's brow there came 
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. 



In answer nought could Angus speak ; 
His proud heart swell'd wellnigh to brea.k : 
He turn'd aside, and down his cheek 

A burning tear there stole. 
His hand the Monarch sudden took, 
That sight his kind heart could not brook : 

" Now, by the Bruce's soul, 
Angus, my hasty speech forgive 1 
For sure as doth his spirit live. 
As he said of the Douglas old, 

I well may say of you, — 
That never king did subject hold. 
In speech more free, in war more bold, 

More tender and more true ; 
Forgive me, Douglas, once again." — 
And, while the King his hand did strain. 
The old man's tears fell down like rain. 
To seize the moment Marmion tried, 
^nd whisper'd to the King aside : 
' Oh 1 let such tears unwonted plead 
For respite short from dubious deed I 
A. chikl will weep a bramble smart, 
A maid to see her sparrow part, 
A striphng for a woinan's heart ; 
But woe awaits a country, when 
She sees the tears of bearded men. 
Then, oh ! what omen, dark and high, 
When Douglas wets his manly eye 1 " 



Displeased was James, that stranger view'd 

And tamper'd with his clianging mood. 

" Laugh those that can, weep those that 

may,'' 
Thus did the fiery Monarch say, 
" Southward I march by break of day ; 
And if within Tantallon stfong. 
The good Lord Marmion tarries long, 
Perchance our meeting next may fall 
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall." — 
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, 
And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt : 
" Much honor'd were my humble home. 
If in its halls King James should come ; 
But Nottingham has archers good, 
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood ; 
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. 
On Derby Hills the paths are steep ; 
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep ; 
And many a banner will be torn, 
And many a knight to earth be borne, 
And many a sheaf of arrows spent, 
Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent. 
Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet yoo 

may !'' — 
The Monarch lightly turn'd away, 
And to his nobles loud did call, — 
" Lords, to the dance, — a hall ! a hall ! " * 
Himself his cloak and sword flung by, 
And led Dame Heron gallantly ; 
And minstrels, at the royal order, 
Rung out — "Blue Bonnets o'er the Boy« 

der." 

XVIII. 

Leave we these revels now, to tell 
What to Saint Hilda's maids befell, 
Whose galley, as they sail'd again 
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. 
Now at Dun-Edin did they bide, 
Till James should of their fate decide; 

And soon, by his command, 
Were gently summon'd to prepare 
To journey under Marmion's care, 
As escort honor'd, safe, and fair, 

•Again to English land. 
The Abbess told her chaplet o'er, 
Nor knew which saint she should implore 
For, when she thought of Constance, sore 

She fear'd Lord Marmion's mood. 
And judge what Clara must have felt! 
The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt, 

Had drunk De Wilton's blood. 
— «^^ 

* The ancient cry to make room for a danc«^ 
or pageant. 



88 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Unwittingly, King James had given, 

As guard to Wliitby's shades, 
Tlie n:ian most di'eaded under Heaven 

By these defenceless maids: 
Yet what petition could avail, 
Or who would listen to the tale 
Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 
'Mid bustle of a war begun ? 
They deem'd it hopeless to avoid 
The convoy of their dangerous guide. 

XIX. 

Their lodging, so the King assign'd, 
To Marmion's, as their guardian join'd ; 
And thus it fell, that passing nigh. 
The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, 

Who warn'd him by a scroll. 
She had a secret to reveal. 
That much concern'd the Church's weal, 

And health of sinner's soul ; 
And, with deep charge of secrecy, 

She named a place to meet, 
Within an open balcony. 
That hung from dizzy pitch, and high, 

Above the stately street ; 
To which, as common to each home, 
At night they might in secret come. 

XX. 

At night, in secret there they came, 
The Palmer and the holy Dame. 
The moon among the clouds rode high, 
And all the city hum was by. 
Upon the street, where late before 
Did din of war and warriors roar, 

You might have heard a pebble fall, 
A beetle hum, a cricket sing, 
An owlet Hap his boding wing 

On Giles's steeple tall. 
The antique buildings, climbing high, 
Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky. 

Were here wrapt deep in shade ; 
There on their brows the moon-beam 

broke, 
Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke. 

And on the casements play'd. 

And other light was none to see, 
Save torches gliding far, 

Before some chieftain of degree. 

Who letr the royal revelry 
To bowne him for the war. — 
A solemn scene the Abbess chose; 
A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 



" O, holy Palmer ! " she began, — 
" For sure he must be sainted man, 
Whose blessed feet have trod the ground 



Where the Redeemer's tomb is found, — 
For His dear Church's sake, my tale 
Attend, nor deem of light avail, 
Though I must speak of worldly love, — 
How vain to those who wed above! — 
De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo'd 
Clara de Clare of Gloster's blood; 
(Idle it were of Whitby's dame, 
To say of that same blood I came;) 
And once, when jealous rage was high, 
Lord Marmion said despiteously, 
Wilton was traitor in his heart, 
And had made league with Martin Swart, ^4 
When he came here on Simnel's part; 
And only cowardice did restrain 
His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, — 
And down he threw his glove : — the thing 
Was tried, as wont, before the King; 
Where frankly did De Wilton own. 
That Swart in Gueldres he had known ; 
And that between them then there went 
Some scroll of courteous compliment. 
For this he to his castle sent; 
But when his messenger return'd. 
Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd! 
For in his packet there were laid 
Letters that claim'd disloj'al aid, 
And proved King Henry's cause betray'd. 
His fame, thus blighted, in the field 
He strove to clear, by spear and shield; — 
To clear his fame in vain he strove, 
For wondrous are His ways above! 
Perchance some form was unobserved; 
Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved; 
Else how could guiltless champion quail, 
Or how the blessed ordeal fail? 



" His squire, who now De Wilton saw 
As recreant doom'd to suffer law, 

Repentant, own'd in vain, 
That, while he had the scrolls in care, 
A stranger maiden, passing fair. 
Had drench 'd him with a beverage rare 

His words no faith could gain. 
With Clare alone he credence won. 
Who, rather than wed Marmion, 
Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, 
To give our house her livings fair 
And die a vestal vot'ress there. 
The impulse from the earth was given,. 
But bent her to the paths of heaven. 
A purer heart, a lovelier maid, 
Ne'er shelter'd her in Whitby's shade 
No, not since Saxon Edelfled; 

Only one trace of earthly strain, 
That for her lover's loss 



J 



MARMION. 



89 



She cherishes a sorrow vain, 
And murmurs at the cross. — 

And then her lieritage ; — it goes 
Along the banks of Tame ; 

Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, 

In meadows rich the heifer lows, 

The falconer and huntsman knows 
Its woodlands for the game. 
Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, 
And I, her humble vot'ress here, 

Should do a deadly sin, 
Her temple spoil'd before mine eyes, 
If this false Marmion such a prize 

By my consent should win ; 
Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn 
That Clare shall from our house be torn. 
And grievous cause liave I to fear 
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear. 

XXIII. 

** Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray'd 
To evii power, I claim thine aid. 

By every ttep that thou hast trod 
To holy shrine and grotto dim. 
By every martyr's tortured limb, 
By angel, *^.u-nt, and seraphim. 

And by i.e Church of God ! 
For mark : — When Wilton was betray'd, 
And with his squire forged letters laid, 
She was, alas ! that sinful maid, 

By whom the deed was done, — 
O ! shame and horror to be said !-^ 

She was a jierjured nun ! 
No clerk in all the land, like her, 
Traced quaint and varying character. 
Perchance you may a marvel deem. 

That Marmion's paramour 
<For such vile thing she was) should scheme 

Her lover's nuptial hour ; 
But o'er him thus she hoped to gain 
As privy to his honor's stain, 

Illimitable power: 
For this she secretly retain'd 

Each proof that might the plot reveal, 

instructions with his hand and seal ; 
And thus Saint Hilda deign'd. 

Through sinner's perfidy impure, 

Her house's glory to secure. 
And Clare's immortal weal. 

XXIV. 

'"Twere long, and needless, here to tell, 
How to my hand these papers fell ; 

With me they must not stay. 
Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true .' 
Who know? what outrage he might do, 

While journeying by the way ? — 



O, blessed Saint, if e'er again 

I venturous leave thy calm domain, 

To travel or by land or main. 

Deep penance may I pay 1 — 
Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer? 
I give this packet to thy care, 
For thee to stop they will not dare ; 

And O ! with cautious speed, 
To Wolsey's hand the papers bring, 
That he may show them to the King*; 

And, for thy well-earn'd meed. 
Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine 
A weekly mass shall still be thine, 

While priests can sing and read. — 
What ail'st thou ? — Speak ! " For as he took 
The charge, a strong emotion shook 

His frame ; and, ere reply, 
They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone, 
Like distant clarion feebly blown. 

That on the breeze did die ; 
And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear, 
" Saint Withold, save us ! — What is here? 

Look at yon City Cross ! 
See on its battled tower appear 
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, 

And blazon'd banners toss 1" 



Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone,'* 

Rose on a turret octagon ; 

(But now is razed that monument, 

Whence royal edict rang. 
And voice of Scotland's law was sent 

In glorious trumpet-clang. 
O ! be his tomb as lead to lead, 
Upon its dull destroyer's head! 
A minstrel's malison * is said.) 
Then on its battlements they saw 
A vision, passing Nature's law, 

Strange, wild, and dimly seen ; 
Figures that seem'd to rise and die, 
Gibber and sign, advance and fly. 
While nought confirm'd could ear or ejPt 

Discern of sound or mien. 
Yet darkly did it seem, as there 
Heralds and Pursuivants prepare, 
With trumpet sound and blazon fair, 

A summons to proclaim ; 
But indistinct the pageant proud. 
As fancy forms of midnight cloud. 
When flings the moon upon her shroud 

A wavering tinge of flame ; 
It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, 
From midmost of the spectre crowd. 

This awful summons came : ^^ — 



* Curse. 



go 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXVI. 

" Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, 

Whose names I now shall call, 
Scottish, or foreigner, give ear ; 
Subjects of him who sent me here, 
At his tribunal to appear, 

1 summon one and all : 
I cite you by each deadly bin, 
. That ^'er hath soil'd your hearts within : 
I cite you by each brutal lust, 
That' e'er defiled your earthly dust, — 

By wrath, by pride, by fear, 
By each o'er-mastering passion's tone. 
By the dark grave, and dying groan ! 
When forty days are pass'd and gone, 
I cite you, at your Monarch's throne, 

To answer and appear." 
Then thunder'd forth a roll of names : 
The first was thine, unhappy James ! 

Then all thy nobles came ; 
Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, 
Ross, Both well, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, — 
Why should 1 tell their separate style ? 
. Each chief of birth and fame, 
Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, 
Fore-doom'd to Flodden's carnage pile. 

Was cited there by name ; 
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye ; 
De Wilton, erst of Aberley, 
The self-same thundering voice did say. — 

But then another spoke : 
** Thy fatal summons I deny, 
And thine infernal Lord defy, 
Appealing me to Him on High, 

Who burst the sinner's yoke." 
At that dread accent, with a scream. 
Parted the pageant like a dream. 

The summoner was gone. 
Prone on her face the Abbess fell 
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell ; 
Her nuns came, startled by the yell, 

And found her there alone. 
She mark'd not, at the scene aghast, 
What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd. 

XXVII, 

Shift we the scene. — The camp doth move, 

Dun-Edin's streets are empty now. 
Save when^ for weal of those they love. 

To pray the prayer, and vow the vow, 
The tottering child, the anxious fan-, 
The gray-hair'd sire, with pious care. 
To chapels and to shnnes repair — 
Where is the Palmer now .'' and where 
The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare? — 
Bold Douglas ! to Tantallon fair 



They journey in thy charge : 
Lord Marmion rode on his right hand. 
The Palmer still was with the band ; 
Angus, like Lindesay, did command, 

That none should roam at large. 
But in that Palmer's altered mien 
A wondrous change might now be seen, 

Freely he spoke of war, 
Of marvels wrought by single hand, 
When lifted for a native land ; 
And still look'd high, as if he plann'd 

Some desperate deed afar,. 
His courser would he feed and stroke, 
And, tucking up his sable frocke, 
Would first his mettle bold provoke, 

Then soothe or quell his pride. 
Old Hubert said, that never one 
He saw, except Lord Marmion, 

A steed so fairly ride. 

XXVIII. 

Some half-hour's march behind, there came^ 

By Eustace govern'd fair, 
A troop escorting Hilda's Dame, 
I With all her nuns, and Clare. 
No audience had Lord Marmion sought ; 
Ever he fear'd to aggravate 
Clara de Clare's suspicious hate ; 
And safer 'twas, he thought, 

To wait till, from the nuns removed, 
The influence of kinsmen loved. 
And suit by Henry's self-approved, 
Her slow consent had wrought. 

His was no flickering flame, that dies 
Unless when fann'd by looks and sighs, 
And lighted oft at lady's eyes ; 
He long'd to stretch his wide command 
O'er luckless Clara's ample land : 
Besides, when Willon with him vied. 
Although the pang ot humbled pride 
The place of jealousy supplied. 
Yet conquest by that meanness won 
He almost loath'd to think upon, 
Led him, at tmies, to hate the cause, 
Which made him burst through honor's 

laws. 
If e'er he loved, 'twas her alone. 
Who died within that vault of stone. 

XXIX. 

And now, wlien close at hand they saw 
North Berwick's town, and lofty Law, 
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile, 
Before a venerable pile,* 



* A convent of Cistertian nuns, founded by 
the Earl of Fife in 1216. 



MARMION'. 



91 



Whose turrets view'd, afar, 
The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 

The ocean's peace or war. 
At tolling of a bell, forth came 
The convent's venerable Dame, 
And pray'd Saint Hilda's Abbess rest 
With her, a loved and honor'd guest, 
Till Douglas should a bark prepare 
To waft her back to Whitby fair. 
Slad was the Abbess, you may guess, 
And thank'd the Scottish Prioress ; 
And tedious were to tell, I ween. 
The courteous speech that pass'd between. 

O'er joy 'd the nuns their palfreys leave ; 
But when fair Clara did intend. 
Like them, from horseback to descend, 

Fitz-Eustace said, — " I grieve, 
Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart, 
Such gentle company to part; — 

Think not discourtesy. 
But lords' commands must be obey'd ; 
And Marmion and the Douglas said, 

That you must wend with me. 
Lord Marmion hath a letter broad. 
Which to the Scottish Earl he show'd. 
Commanding that, beneath his care, 
Without delay, you shall repair 
To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare." 



The startled Abbess loud exclaim'd ; 
But she, at whom the blow was aim'd, 
Grew pale as death, and cold as lead, — 
She deem'd she heard her death-doom read. 
" Cheer thee, my child ! " the Abbess said, 
" They dare not tear thee from my hand, 
To ride alone with armed band." 

** Nay, holy mother, nay," 
Fitz-Eustace said, " the lovely Clare 
Will be in Lady Angus' care. 

In Scotland while we stay ; 
And, when we move, an easy ride 
Will bring us to the English side, 
Female attendance to provide 

Befitting Gloster's heir : 
Nor thinks nor dreams my noble lord, 
By slightest look, 01 act, or word. 

To harass Lady Clare. 
Her faithiul guaidian he will be, 
Nor sue tor slightest courtesy 

That e'en tc a stranger falls. 
Till he shall place hei. safe and free, 

Within hex Kinsman's halls." 
He spoke, and blush'd witli earnest grace ; 
His faith was painted on his face, 

And Clare's worst fear relieved. 



The Lady Abbess loud exclaim'd 
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, 

Entreated, threaten'd, grieved ; 
To martyr, saint, and prophet pray'd, 
Against Lord Marmion inveigh'd, 
And call'd the Prioress to aid, 
To curse with candle, bell, and book. 
Her head the grave Cistertian shook : 
" The Douglas, and the King," slie said, 
" In their commands will be obey'd ; 
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall 
The maiden in Tantallon hall." 

?CXXI. 

The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, 
Assumed her wonted state again, — 

For much of state she had, — 
Composed her veil, and raised her head. 
And — " Bid." in solemn voice she said, 

" Thy master, bold and bad. 
The records of his house turn o'er. 

And, when he shall there written see. 

That one of his own ancestry 

Drove the Monks forth of Coventry,^' 
Bid him his fate explore ! 

Prancing in pride of earthly trust, 

His charger hurl'd him to the dust, 

And, by a base plebeian thrust, 
He died his band before. 

God judge 'twixt Marrhion and me; 

He is a Chief of high degree. 
And I a poor recluse : 

Yet oft, in holy writ, we see 

Even such weak minister as me 
May the oppressor bruise : 

For thus, inspired, did Judith slay 
The mighty in his sin, 

And Jael thus, and Deborah " 

Here hasty Blount broke in: 
" Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band ; 
St. Anton' fire thee ! wilt thou stand 
All-day, with bonnet in thy hand, 

To hear the lady preach .? 
By this good light ! if thus we stay. 
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay. 

Will sharper sermon teach. 
Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse ; 
The dame must patience take perforce."— » 

XXXII. 

"Submit we then to force," said Clare, 
" But let this barbarous lord despair 

His purposed aim to win ; 
Let liim take living, land, and life : 
But to be Marmion's wedded wife 

In me were deadly sin : 
And if it be the King's decree 
That I must find no sanctuary, 



92 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In that inviolable dome, 

Where even a homicide might come, 

And safely rest his head, 
Though at its open portals stood, 
Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood. 

The kinsmen of the dead , 
Yet one asylum is my ow^n 

Against th ; dreaded hour ; 
A low, a silent, and a lone, 

Where kings have little power. 
One victim is before me there. — 
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer, 
Remember your unhappy Clare ! '' 
Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows 

Kind blessings many a one : 
Weeping and wailing loud arose. 
Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes 

Of every simple nun. 
His eyes the gentle Eustace dried, 
And scarce rude Blount the sight could 
bide. 

Then took the squire her rein, 
And gently led away her steed, 
And, by each courteous word and deed, 

To cheer her strove in vain. 

XXXIII. 

But scant three miles the band had rode 

When o'er a height they pass'd, 
And, sudden, close before them show'd 

His towers, Tantallon vast ; 
Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, 
And held impregnable in war. 
On a projecting rock they rose. 
And round three sides the ocean flows. 
The fourth did battled walls enclose. 

And double mound and fosse. 
By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong, 
Through studded gates, an entrance long. 

To the main court they cross. 
It was a wide and stately square : 
Around were lodgings, fit and fair, 

And towers of various form, 
Which on the court projected far. 
And broke its lines quadrangular. 
Here was squar- keep, there turret high, 
Or pinnacle that sought the sky, 
Whence oft the wanderer could descry 

The gathering ocean storm. 

xxxiv. 
Here did they rest. — The princely care 
Of Douglas, why should I declare, 
Or say they met reception fair ; 

Or why the tidings say, 
Which, varying, to Tantallon came, 
By hurrying posts of fleeter fame, 



With ever varying day ? 
And, first they heard King James had won 

Etall, and Wark, and Ford ; and then, 

That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. 
At tliat sore marvell'd Marmion : — 
And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand 
Would soon subdue Northumberland: 

But whisper'd news there came, 
That, wliile his host inactive lay. 
And melted by degrees away. 
King James was dallying off the day 

With Heron's wily dame. — 
Such acts to chronicles I yield ; 

Go seek them there, and see : 
Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, 

And not a history. — 
At length they heard the Scottish host 
On that high ridge had made their post, 

Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain ; 
And that brave Surrey many a band 
Had gather'd in the Southern land, 
And march'd into Northumberland, 

And camp at Wooler ta'en. 
Marmion, like charger in the stall. 
That hears, without, the trumpet-call, 

Began to chafe, and swear : — 
" A sorry thing to hide my head 
In castle, like a fearful maid. 

When such a field is near ! 
Needs must I see this battle-day : 
Death to my fame if such a fray 
Were fought, and Marmion away I 
Tiie Douglas, too, I wot not why, 
Hath 'bated of his courtesy : 
No longer in his halls I'll stay." 
Then bade his band they should array 
For march against the dawning day. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
SIXTH. 

TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ. 

Mertoun-House, Christmas. 
Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill 
But let it whistle as it will. 
We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
Each age has deem'd the new-born year 
The fittest time for festal cheer : 
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane 
At lol more deep the mead did drain j^^ 
High on the beach his galleys drew. 
And feasted all his pirate crew ; 
Then in his low and pine-built hall. 
Where shields and axes deck'd the wall, 



MA RATION. 



93 



They gorged upon the half-dress'd steer ; 

Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 

While round, in brutal jest, were thrown 

The half-gnaw'd rib and marrow-bone : 

Or listen'd all, in grim delight, 

While Scalds yell'd out the joys of fight. 

Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie, 

While wildly-loose their red locks fly, 

And dancing round the blazing pile, 

They make such barbarous mirth the while, 

As best might to the mind recall 

The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. 

And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year its course had roll'd, 
And brought blithe Christmas back again. 
With all his hospitable train. 
Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honor to the holy night ; 
On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; 
On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; 
That only night in all the year. 
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ; 
The hall was dress'd with holly green ; 
Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
To gather in the mistletoe. 
Then open'd wide the Baron's hall 
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
Power laid his rod of rule aside, 
And Ceremony doff'd his pride. 
The heir with roses in his shoes, 
That night might village partner choose ; 
The Lord, underogating, share 
The vulgar game ot *' post and pair." * 
All hail'd with uncontrolled delight. 
And general voice, the happy night, 
That to the cottage, as the crown, 
Brought tidings of salvation down. 

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 
Went roaring up the chimney wide ; 
The huge hall-table's oaken face, 
Sc-ubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, 
Bore then upon its massive board 
Ko niark to part the squire and lord. 
Then was brought in the lusty brawn. 
By old blue-coated serving-man ; 
Then tlie grim boar's head frown'd on high. 
Crested with bays and rosemary. 
Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell, 
How, when, and where, the monster fell ; 
What dogs before his death he tore, 
And all the baiting of the boar. 
The wassel round, in good brown bowls, 
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls. 



An old gar.ie at cards. 



There the huge sirloin reek'd ; hard by 
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; 
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce, 
At such high tide, her savory goose. 
Then came the merry maskers in, 
And carols roar'd with blithesome din j 
If unmelodious was the song. 
It was a hearty note, and strong. 
Who lists may in their mumming see 
Traces of ancient mystery ; ^9 
White shirts supplied the masquerade, 
And smutted cheeks the visors made ; 
But, O ! what maskers, richly dight, 
Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
England was merry England, when 
Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
' Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale \ 
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; 
A Chrfstmas gambol oft could cheer 
The poor man's heart through half the 
year. 

Still linger, in our northern clime, 
Some remnants of the good old time; 
And still, within our valleys here. 
We hold the kindred title dear. 
Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd claim 
To Southron ear sounds empty name ; 
For course of blood, our proverbs deem. 
Is warmer than the mountain-stream. f 
And thus, my Christmas still I hold 
Where my great grandsire came of old, 
With amber beard, and flaxen hair, 
And reverend apostolic air — 
The feast and holy-tide to share, 
And mix sobriety with wine. 
And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 
Small thought was his, in after time 
E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme. 
The simple sire could only boast. 
That he was loyal to his cost ; 
The banish'd race of kings revered, 
And lost his land, — but kept his beard. 

In these dear halls, where welcome kind 
Is with fairjiberty combined ; 
Where cormal friendship gives the hand.. 
And flies constraint the magic wand 
Of the fair dame that rules tlie land. 
Little we heed the tempest drear. 
While music, mirth, and social cheer, 
Speed on their wings the passing year 
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now. 
When not a leaf is on the bough. 
Tweed loves them well, and turns again. 
As loath to leave the sweet domain, 

t ** Blood is warmer than water." 



94 



SC0T7"S POETICAL WORKS. 



And holds his mirror to her face, 
And clips her with a close embrace : — 
Gladly as he, we seek the dome, 
And as reluctant turn us home. 

How just that, at this time of glee. 
My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee ! 
For many a merry hour we've known. 
And heard the chimes of midnight tone. 
Cease, then, my friend ! a moment cease, 
And leave these classic tomes in peace ! 
Of Roman and of Grecian lore, 
Sure mortal brain can hold no more. 
These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, 
*' Were pretty fellows in their day ; " 
But time and tide o'er all prevail — 
On Christmas eve a Christmas. tale — 
Of wonder and of war — " Profane ! 
What ! leave the lofty Latian strain,- 
Her stately prose, her verse's charms, 
To hear the clash of rusty arms : 
111 Fairy Land or Limbo lost, 
To jostle conjuror and ghost. 
Goblin and witch ! " — Nay, Heber dear, 
Before you touch my charter, hear : 
Though Leyden aids, alas ! no more. 
My cause with many-languaged lore. 
This may I say : — in realms of death 
Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith ; 
iEneas, upon Thracia's shore, 
The ghost of murder'd Polydore ; 
For omens, we in Livy cross, 
At every turn, locidus Bos. ■ 
As grave and duly speaks that ox, 
As if he told the price of stocks ; 
Or held, in Rome republican. 
The place of common-councilman. 

All nations have their omens drear, 
Their legends wild of woe and fear. 
To Cambria look — the peasant see, 
Bethink him of Glendowerdy, 
And shun " the spirit's Blasted Tree,' * 
The Highlander, whose red claymore 
The battle turn'ii on Maida's shore. 
Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, 
If ask'd to tell a fairy tale : 7° 
He fears the vengeful Elfin King, 
Who leaves that day his grassy ring : 
Invisible to human ken. 
He walks among the sons of men. 

Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along 
Beneath the towers of Franchemont, 

♦Alluding to the Welsh tradition of Hovvel 
Sell and Owen Glendwr. Howel fell in single 
combat against Glendwr, and his body was 
concealed in a hollow oak. 



Which, like an- eagle's nest in air, 

Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair ? 

Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, 

A mighty treasure buried lay, 

Amass' d through rapine and through wrong, 

By the last Lord of Franchemont. ^^ 

The iron chest is bolted hard, 

A huntsman sits its constant guard ; 

Around his neck his horn is hung, 

His hanger in his belt is slung ; 

Before his feet his blood-hounds lie. 

An 'twere not for his gloomy eye, 

Whose withering glance no heart can brook. 

As true a huntsman doth he look. 

As bugle e'er in brake did sound, 

Or ever halloo'd to a hound. 

To chase the fiend, and win the prize, 

In that same dungeon ever tries 

An aged necromantic priest ; 

It is an hundred years at least, 

Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, 

And neither yet has lost nor won. 

And oft the Conjurer's words will make 

The stubborn Demon groan and quake ; 

And oft the bands of iron break. 

Or bursts one lock, that still amain. 

Fast as 'tis open'd, shuts again. 

That magic strife within the tomb 

May last until the day of doom, 

Unless the adept shall learn to tell 

The very word that clench'd the spell. 

When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure 

cell. 
An hundred years are pass'd and gone, 
And scarce three letters has he won. 



Such general superstition may- 
Excuse for old Pitscottie say ; 
Whose gossip history has given 
My song the messenger from Heaven, 
That warn'd, in Liihgow, Scotland's King, 
Nor less the infernal summoning ; 
May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 
Whose demon fought in Gothic mail ; 
May pardon plead for Fordun grave. 
Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave. 
But why such instances to you. 
Who, in an instant, can renew 
Your treasured hoards of various lore. 
And furnish twenty thousand more ; 
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest 
Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, 
While gripple owners still refuse 
To others what they cannot use ; 
Give tliem the priest's whole century. 
They shall not spell you letters three ; 



MAR MI on: 



95 



Their pleasure in the books the same 
The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem. 
Thy volumes, open as thy heart, 
Delight, amusement, science, art, 
To every ear and eye impart ; 
Yet who of all who thus employ them 
Can like the owner's self enjoy them ?- 
But, hark ! I hear the distant drum ! 
The day of Flodden Field is come.- 
Adieu, dear Heber ! life and health, 
'And store of literary wealth. 



CANTO SIXTH. 



THE BATTLE. 



While great events were on the gale, 
And each hour brought a varying tale, 
And the demeanor, changed and cold, 
Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold, 
And, like the impatient steed of war, 
He snuff'd the battle from afar ; 
And hopes were none, that back again 
Herald should come from Terouenne, 
Where England's King in leaguer lay, 
Before decisive battle-day ; 
Whilst these things were, the mournful 

Clare 
Did in the Dame's devotions share : 
For the good Countess ceaseless pray'd 
To heaven and Saints, her sons to aid, 
And, with short interval, did pass 
From prayer to book, from book to mass, 
And all in high Baronial pride, — 
A life both dull and dignified ; 
Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press' d 
Upon her intervals of rest, 
Dejected Clara well could bear 
The formal state, the lengthen'd prayer. 
Though dearest to her wounded heart 
The hours that she might spend apart. 

II. 
I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep 
Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
Many a rude tower and rampart there 
Repell'd the insult of the air. 
Which, when the tempest vex'd the sky, 
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. 
Above the rest, a turret square 
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear, 
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield ; 
The Bloody Heart was in the Field, 
And in the chief three mullets stood. 
The cognizance of Douglas blood. 
The turret held a narrow stair, 



Which, mounted, g-^ve you access where 

A parapet's embattled row 

Did seaward round the castle go. 

Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, 

Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, 

Sometimes in platform broad extending, 

Its varying circle did combine 

Bulwark, and bartizan, and Hne, 

And bastion, tower, and vantage-soign; 

Above the booming ocean leant 

The far-projecting battlement ; 

The billows burst, in ceaseless flow, 

Upon the precipice below. 

Where'er Tantallon faced the land. 

Gate-works, and vyalls, were strongly 

mann'd ; 
No need upon the sea-girt side ; 
The steepy rock, and frantic tide. 
Approach of human step denied ; 
And thus these lines and ramparts rude, 
Were left in deepest solitude. 



And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
Would to these battlements repair. 
And muse upon her sorrows there. 

And list the sea-bird's cry ; 
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide, 
Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side, 
And ever on the heaving tide 

Look down with weary eye. 
Oft did the cliff and swelling main. 
Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane, — 
A home she ne'er might see again ; 

For she had laid adown, 
So Douglas bade, the hood and veil. 
And frontlet of the cloister pale, 

And Benedictine gown : 
It were unseemly sight, he said, 
A novice out of convent shade. — 
Now her bright locks, with sunny glovr, 
Again adom'd her brow of snow ; 
Her mantle rich, whose borders, round, 
A deep and fretted broidery bound. 
In golden foldings sought the ground ; 
Of holy ornament, alone 
Remain'd a cross with ruby stone ; 

And often did she look 
On that which in her hand she bore, 
With velvet bound, and broider'd o'eTy 

Her breviary book. 
In such a place, so lone, so grim, 
At dawning pale, or twilight dim, 

It fearful would have been 
To meet a form so richly dress'd, 
With book in hand, and cross on breast. 

And such a v/oeful nllcn. 



96 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, 
To practise on tlie gull and crow, 
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, 

And did by Mary swear, — 
Some love-lorn Fay she might have been, 
Or, in Romance, some spell-bound Queen : 
For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen 

A form so witching fair 



Once walking thus, at evening tide. 
It chanced a gliding sail she spied, 
And, sighing, thought — " The Abbess 

there. 
Perchance, does to her home repair ; 
Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free, 
Walks hand in hand with Charity ; 
Where oft Devotion's tranced glow 
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow. 
That the enraptured sisters see 
High vision and deep mystery; 
The very form of Hilda fair. 
Hovering upon the sunny air. 
And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 
O ! wherefore, to my duller eye. 
Did still the Saint her form deny ; 
Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn, 
My heart could neither melt nor bum ? 
Or lie my warm affections low. 
With him, that taught them first to glow ? 
Vet gentle Abbess, well 1 knew. 
To pay thy kindness grateful due. 
And well could brook the mild command. 
That ruled thy simple maiden band. 
How different now ! condemn'd to bide 
My doom from this dark tyrant's pride. — 
But Marmion has to learn, ere long. 
That constant mind, and hate of wrong, 
Descended to a feeble girl. 
From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's Earl : 
Of such a stem, a sapling weak, 
He He'er shall bend, although he break. 



But see! wtet makes this armor 

here ? " — 
For in her path there lay 
Targe, corslet, helm; — she view'd them 

near. — 
" The breast-plate pierced ! — Ay, much I 

fear, 
Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's 

spear. 
That hath made fatal entrance here, 

As these dark bl(8od-gouts say. — 
Thus Wilton ! — Oh 1 not corslet's ward, 



Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, 
Could be thy manly bosom's guard. 

On yon disastrous day ! " — 
She raised her eyes in mournful mood,— 
Wilton himself before her stood ! 
It miglit have seem'd his passing ghost, 
For every youthful grace was lost ; 
And joy unwonted, and surprise, 
Gave their strange wildness to his eyes.— 
Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
That I can tell such scene in words : 
What skilful limner e'er would choose 
To paint the rainbow's varying hues, 
Unless to mortal it were given 
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ? 
Far less can my weak line declare 

Each changing passion's shade ; 
Brightening to rapture from despair, 
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there. 
And joy, with her angelic air. 
And hope that paints the future fair. 

Their varying hues display'd : 
Each o'er its rival's ground extending, 
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending, 
Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield. 
And mighty Love retains the field. 
Shortly 1 tell what then he said, 
By many a tender word delay'd. 
And modest blush, and bursting sigh. 
And question kind, and fond reply : — 

VI. 
DE WILTON'S HISTORY. 

" Forget we th?.t disastrous day. 
When sen5ele«v5 in the lists I lay. 

Thence dj-agg'd, — but how I cannotl 

know, I 

For sense and recollection fled, — ' 

I found me on a pallet low. 

Within my ancient beadsman's shed, 

Austin, — remember'st thou, my Clare, 
How thou didst blush, when the old man, 
When first our infant love began, 

Said we would make a matchless pair ?— ^ 
Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled 
From the degraded traitor's bed, — 
He only held my burning head. 
And tended me for many a day. 
While wounds and fever held their sway. 
But far more needful was his care. 
When sense return'd to wake despair ; 

For I did tear the closing wound, 

And dash me frantic on the ground, 
If e'er I heard the name of Clare. 
At length, to calmer reason brought, 
Much by his kind attendance wrought. 



MARMION. 



97 



With him I left my native strand, 
And, in a palmer's weeds array'd, 
My hated name and form to shade, 

I journey'd many a land ; 
No more a lord of rank and birth, 
But mingled with the dregs of earth. 

Oft Austin for my reason fear'd, 
When I would sit and deeply brood 
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood. 

Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. 
My friend at length fell sick, and said, 

God would remove him soon : 
Ard, while upon his dying bed, 

He begg'd of me a boon— 
If e'er my deadliest enemy 
Beneath my brand should conquer'd lie, 
Even then my mercy should awake, 
And spare his life for Austin's sake. 



" Still restless as a second Cain, 

To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 

Full well the paths 1 knew. 
Fame of my fate made various sound, 
That death in pilgrimage 1 found, 
That I had perish' d of my wound, 

None cared which tale was true ; 
And living eye could never guess 
De Wilton in his Palmer's dress ; 
For now that sable slough is shed, 
And trimm'd my shaggy beard and head, 
1 scarcely know me in the glass. 
A chance most wondrous did provide, 
That I should be that Baron's guide — 

I will not name his name ! — 
Vengeance to God alone belongs ; 
But, when I think of all my wrongs, 

My blood is liquid flame ! 
And ne'er the time shall I forget. 
When, in a Scottish hostel set, 

Dark looks we did exchange : 
What were his thoughts I cannot tell ; 
But in my bosom muster'd Hell 

Its plans of dark revenge. 

VIII. 

" A word of vulgar augury. 

That broke from me, I scarce knew why. 

Brought on a village tale ; 
Which wrought upon his moody sprite, 
And sent him armed forth by night. 

I borrow'd steed and mail. 
And weapons, from his sleeping band ; 

And, passing from a postern door, 
We met, and 'counter' u hand to hand, — 

He fell on Gifford moor. 
For the death-stroke my brand I drew. 



(O then my helmed head he knew, 

The Palmer's cowl was gone,) 
Then had three inches of my blade 
The heavy debt of vengeance paid, — 
My hand the thought of Austin staid ;~ 

I left him there alone. — 
O good old man ! even from the grave 
Thy spirit could thy master save: 
If 1 had slain my foeman, ne'er 
Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear, 
Given to my hand this packet dear, 
Of power to clear my injured fame, 
And vindicate De Wiitcn's name. — 
Perchance ycu heard the Abbess tell <j. 
Of the strange pageantry .of Hell, 

That broke our secret speech — 
It rose from the mfernal shade, 
Or featly was some juggle playd, 

A tale of peace to teach 
.Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, 
When my name came among the rest. 



" Now here, within Tantallon Hold, 
To Douglas late my tale I told, 
To whom my house was known of old. 
Won by my proofs, his falchion bright 
This eve anew shall dub me knight. 
These were the arms that once did turn 
The tide of fight on Otterbourne, 
And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, 
When the Dead Douglas won the field.* 
These Angus gave — his armorer's care. 
Ere morn shall every breach repair ; ' 
For nought, he said, was in his halls, 
Birt ancient armor on the walls, 
And aged chargers in the stalls, 
And women, priests, and gray-hair'd men 
The rest were all in Twisel glen.|- 
And now I watch my armor here. 
By law of arms, till midnight's near ; 
Then, once again a belted knight. 
Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of Hght. 



" There soon again we meet, my Clare ! 
This Baron means to guide thee there : 
Douglas reveres his King's command, 
Else would he take thee from his band. 
And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too, 
Will give De Wilton justice due. 
Now meeter far for martial broil, 
Firmer my hmbs, and strung by toil, 



* See the ballad of Otterbourne, in tba 
" Border Minstrelsy," vol. i. p. 345. 

t Where James encamped before taking post 
on Flodden. 



98 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Once more "— " O Wilton ! must we then 
Risk new-found happiness again, 

Trust fate of arms once more ? 
And is there not an humble glen, 

Where we, content and poor, 
Miglit build a cottage in the shade, 
A. shepherd thou, and 1 to aid 

Thy task on dale and moor ? — 
That reddening brow !— too well I know, 
IJot even thy Clare can peace bestow, 

While falsehood stains thy name ; 
Go then to fight 1 Clare bids thee go ! 
Clare can a warrior's feelings know. 

And weep a warrior's shame ; 
Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, 
BucKle the spurs upon thy heel, 
And belt thee with thy brand of steel, 

And send thee forth to fame ! " 



That night, upon the rocks and bay, 
The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay, 
And pour'd its silver light, and pure. 
Through loop-hole, and through embrazure, 

Upon Tantallon tower and hall ; 
But chief where arched windo^vs wide 
Illuminate the chapel's pride, 

The sober glances fall. 
Much was their need ; though seam'd with 

scars, 
To veterans of the Douglas' wars, 

Though two gray priests were there. 
And each a blazing torch held high. 
You could not by their blaze descry 

The chapel's carving fair. 
Amid that dim and smoky light. 
Chequering the silver moon-shine bright, 

A bishop by the altar stood,* 

A noble lord of Douglas blood. 
With mitre sheen, androcquet white. 
Yet show'd his meek and thoughtful eye 
B\it little pride of prelacy ; 
More pleased that, in a barbarous age, 
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page, 
Than that beneath his rule he held 
jThe bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 
Beside him ancient Angus stood, 
Doff'd his fur'd gown and sable hood: 
O'er his huge form and visage pale, 
He wore a cap and shirt of mail ; 



* The well-known Gawain Douglas, Bishop 
©f Dunkeld, son of Archibald Bell-the-Cat, 
Earl of Angus. He was author of a Scottish 
metrical version of the ^neid, and of many 
©ther poetical pieces of great merit. He had 
sot at tliis period attained the mitre. 



And lean'd his large and wrinkled hand 
Upon the huge and sweeping brand, 
Which wont of yore, in battle fray, 
His foeman's limbs to shred away. 
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. '^ 

He seem'd as, from the tombs around 
Rising at judgment-day. 

Some giant Douglas may be found 
In ail his old array ; 
So pale his face, so huge his limb. 
So old his arms, his look so grim. 



Then at the altar Wilton kneels, 
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels ; 
And think what next he must have felt. 
At buckling of the falchion belt ! 

And judge how Clara changed her hue, 
While fastening to her lover's side 
A friend, which, though in danger tried, 

He once had found untrue ! 
Then Douglas struck him with his blade : 
" Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 

I dub thee knight. 
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir 1 
For King, for Church, for Lady fair, 

See :hat thou fight."— 
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose. 
Said—" Wilton ! grieve not for thy woes,i 

Disgrace, and trouble ; 
For He, who honor best bestows. 

May give thee double." 
De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must— 
" Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust 

That Douglas is my brother ! " — 
" Nay, nay," old Angus said, " not so; 
To Surrey's camp thou now must go, 
Thy wrongs no longer smother. 
I have two sons in yonder field ; 
And, if thou meet'st them under shield, 
Upon them bravely — do thy worst ; 
And foul fall him that blenches first 1 " 



Not far advanced was morning day, 
When Marmion did his troop array 

To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
He had safe conduct for his band, 
Beneath the royal seal and hand. 

And Douglas gave a guide : 
The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
Would Clara on her palfrey place. 
And whisper' d in an under tone, 
" Let the hawk stoop, his prey is fiown."- 
The train, from out the castle drew. 
But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu:— 



MARMION, 



99 



"Though something I might plain,'* he 
said, 
•* Of cold respect to stranger guest. 
Sent hither by your King's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I staid ; 
Part we in friendship from your land, 
And, noble Earl, receive my hand," — 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — 
" My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
iBe open, at my Sovereign's will, 
To each < ne whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my King's alone, 
From turret to f undation-stone — 
The hand of Douglas is his own ; 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp." — 



Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his very frame for ire, 

And — " This to me !" he said, — 
"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
He, who does England's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 
H(»re in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord. 
And lay your hands upon your sword,) 

I tell thee thou'rt defied ! 
And if thou said'st I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! '•' 
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age : 
Fierce he broke forth, — " And darest thcu, 

then, 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his hall ? 
And hopest thoii hence unscathed to go ? — 
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
Up drawbridge, grooms — what, Warder, 
ho! 

Let the portcullis fall." 73 
Lord Marmion tum'd, — well was his need. 
And dash'd the rowels in his steed. 
Like arrow through the archway sprung. 
The ponderous grate behind him rung : 
To pass tliere was such scanty room, 
The bars, descending, razed his plumo. 



XV. 

The steed along the drawbridge flies, 

Just as it trembled on the rise ; 

Nor lighter does the swallow skim 

Along the smooth lake's level brim ; 

And when Lord Marmion reach'd his band, 

He halts, and turn'd with clench'd hand, 

And shout of loud defiance pours, 

And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 

" Horse ! horse 1 " the Douglas cried, ' and 

chase 1 " 
But soon he rein'd his fury's pace : 
" A royal messenger he came. 
Though most unworthy of the name. — 
A letter forged I Saint Jude to speed ! 
Did ever knight so foul a deed ! " 
At first in heart it liked me ill, 
When the King praised his clerkly skill. 
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line. 
So swore I, and I swear it still, 
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
I thought to slay him where he stood. 
'Tis pity of him too," he cried: 
" Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, 
I warrant him a warrior tried." 
With this his mandate he recalls, 
And slowly seeks his castle halls. 

XVI. 

The day in Marmion's journey wore ; 
Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er, 
They cross'd the heights of Stanrig-moor. 
His troop more closely there he scann'd, 
And miss'd the Palmer from the band. — 
" Palmer or not," young Blount did say, 
" He parted at the peep of day ; 
Good sooth, it was in strange array." 
" In what array? " said Marmion quick, 
" My lord, I ill can spell the trick ; 
But all night long, with clink and bang, 
Close to my couch did hammers clang ; 
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 
And from a loop-hole while I peep. 
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep, 
Wrapp'd in a gown of sables fair, 
As fearful of the morning air ; 
Beneath, when that was blown aside, 
A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 
By Archibald won in bloody work. 
Against the Saracen and Turk : 
Last night it hung not in the hall ; 
1 thought some marvel* would befall. 
And next I saw them saddled lead 
Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's best steed; 



lOO 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



A matchless horse, though something old, 

Prompt in his paces, cool and bold. 

I heard the Sheriff Sholto say, 

The Earl did much the Master * pray 

To use him on the battle-day ; 

But he preferr'd — " " Nay, Henry, cease 1 

Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy 

peace. — 
Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — I pray 
What did Blount see at break of day ? " — 

XVII. 

" In brief, my lord, we both descried 
(For then I stood by Henry's side) 
The Palmer mount, and outwards ride. 

Upon tho. Earl's own favorite steed ; 
All sheathed he was in armor bright, 
And much resembled that same knight, 
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight : 

Lord Angus wish'd him speed." — 
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, 
A sudden light on Marmion broke ; — 
" Ah ! dastard fool, to reason lost ! " 
He mutter'd ; " 'Twas nor fay nor ghost 
I met upon the moonlight wold, 
But living man of earthly mould. — 

O dotage blind and gross ! 
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
Had laid De Wilton in the dust, 

My path no more to cross. — 
How stand we now? — he told his tale 
To Douglas ; and with some avail ; 

'Twas therefore gloom'd his rugged 
brow. — 
Will Surrey dare to entertain, 
'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and 
vain .? 

Small risk of that, I trow. 
Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun ; 
Must separate Constance from the N-un^- 
O, what a tangled web we weave. 
When first we practise to deceive ! 
A Palmer too ! — no wonder why 
I felt rebuked beneath his eye : 
I might have known there was but one 
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." 



Stung with these thoughts, he urged to 

speed 
His troop, and reach'd at eve, the Tweed, 
Where Lennel's convent closed their march. 
(There now is left but one frail arch ; 

Yet mourn thou not its cells ; 
Our time a fair exchange has made ; 



• His eldest son, the Master of Angus. 



Hard by, in hospitable shade, 

A reverend pilgrim dwells. 
Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, 
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) 
Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there 
Give Marmion entertainment fair. 
And lodging for his train and Clare. 
Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower, 
To view afar the Scottish power, 

Encamp'd on Flodden edge : 
The white pavilions made a show, 
Like remnants of the winter snow. 

Along the dusky ridge. 
Lord Marmion look'd : — at length his eye 
Unusual movement might descry 

Amid the shifting lines : 
The Scottish host drawn out appears, 
For, flashing on the hedge of spears 

The eastern sunbeams shines. 
Their front now deepening, now extend* 

Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, 
Now drawing back, and now descending, 
The skilful Marmion well could know. 
They watch'd the motions of some foe, 
Who traversed on the plain below. 



Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 

The Scots beheld the English host 

Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, 

And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd 
The Till by Twisel Bridge." 

High sight it is, and haughty, while 
They dive into the deep defile ; 

Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall, 

Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree. 

Troop after troop are disappearing ; 

Troop after troop their banners rearing, 
Upon the eastern bank you see. 
Still pouring down the rocky den, | 

Where flows the sullen Till, I 

And rising from the dim-wood glen. ^ 

Standards on standards, men on mea, 

In slow succession still. 
And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch. 
And pressing on, in ceaseless march, 

To gain the opposing hill. 
That morn, to many a trumpet clang, \ 

Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang ; i 

And many a chief of birth and rank ; 
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we sw; 
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly. 



MARMIOAT. 



01 



Had then from many an axe its doom, 
To give the marching columns room. 



And why stands Scotland idly i)ow, 
Darlc Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 
Since England gains the pass the while, 
A«d struggles through the deep defile ? 
What checks the fiery soul of James ? 
Why sits that champion of the dames 

Inactive on his steed, 
And sees between him and his land, 
Between him and Tweed's southern strand, 

His host Lord Surrey lead? 
What "vails the vain knight-errant's brand? 
— O, Douglas, for thy leading wand 1 

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 
O for one hour of Wallace wight. 
Or well-skill'd Bruce to rule the fight. 
And cry — " Saint Andrew and our right ! " 
Another sight had seen that morn. 
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne ! — 
The precious hour has pass'd in vain, 
And England's host has gain'd the plain ; 
Wheeling their march, and circling still, 
Around the base of Flodden hill. 



Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, 
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
" Hark ! hark ! my lord, an English drum I 
And see ascending squadrons come 

Between Tweed's river and the hill. 
Foot, horse, and cannon : — hap what hap. 
My basnet to a prentice cap. 

Lord Surrey's o'er the Till ! 
Yet more I yet more ! — how far array'd 
They file from out the hawthorn shade, 

And sweep so gallant by 
With all their banners bravely spread, 

And all their armor flashing high, 
St. George might waken from the dead, 

To see fair England's standards fly." — 
"Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, 

" thou'dst best. 
And listen to our lord's behest." — 
With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,— 
" This instant be our band array'd ; 
The river must be quickly cross'd. 
That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
If fight King James, — as well I trust, 
That fight he will, and fight he must,— 
The Lady Clare behind our lines 
Shall tarry, while the battle joins." 



XXII. 

Himself he swift on liorseback threw, 
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu ; 
Far less would listen to his prayer. 
To leave behind the helpless Clare. 
Down to the Tweed his ban'd he drew. 
And mutter'd as the flood they view, 
" The pheasant in the falcon's claw, 
He scarce will yield to please a daw 
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe, 

So Clare shall bide with me." 
Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, 
Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies creep. 

He ventured desperately : 
And not a moment will he bide. 
Till squire, or groom, before him ride ; 
Headmost of all he stems the tide ; 

And stems it gallantly. 
Eustace held Clare upon her horse, 

Old Hubert led her rein. 
Stoutly they braved the current's course, 
And, though far downward driven per fcrc^ 

The southern bank they gain ; 
Behind them straggling, came to shore, 

As best they might, the train : 
Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 

A caution not in vain , 
Deep need that day that every string, 
By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring. 
A moment then Lord Marmion staid, 
And breathed his steed, his men array'd, 

Then forward moved his band. 
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, 
He halted by a Cross of Stone, 
That, on a hillock standing lone, 

Did all the field command. 

XXIII. 

Hence might they see the full array 
Of either host, for deadly fray ; ^^ 
Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east and 
west. 

And fronted north and south, 
And distant salutation pass'd 

From the loud cannon mouth ; 
Not in the close successive rattle. 
That breathes the voice of modern battle 

But slow and far between. — 
The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion staid: 
" Here by this Cross," he gently said, 

" You well may view the scene. 
He. a shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : 
O ! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — 
Thou wilt not ? — well, — no less my care 
SluU, watchful, for thy weal prepare. — 



102 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Vou, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, 

With ten pick'd archers of my train ; 
With England if the day go hard, 

To Berwick speed amain. — 
But if we conquer, cruel maid, 
My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 

When here we meet again." 
He waited not for answer there, 
And would not mark the maid's despair. 

Nor heed the discontented look 
From either squire ; but spurr'd amain, 
And, dashing through the battle plain. 

His way to Surrey took. 



" The good Lord Marmion, by my life 

Welcome to danger's hour ! 
Short greeting serves in time of strife 1 

Thus have I ranged my power ; — 
Myself will rule this central h^st, 

Stout Stanley fronts their right, 
My sons command the vaward post, 

With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight,^^ 

Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light. 

Shall be in rear-ward of the fight. 
And succor those that need it most. 

Now, gallant Marmion, well 1 know, 

Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there. 
With thee their charge will blithely share; 
There fight thine own retainers too, 
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." 
" Thanks, noble Surrey ! " Marmion said. 
Nor farther greeting t'lere he paid ; 
But, parting lik'- a thunderbolt, 
First in the vanguard made a halt. 

Where such a shout there rose 
Of " Marmion 1 Marmion ! " that the cry. 
Up Flodden mountains shrilling high, 

Startleid the Scottish foes. 



Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
With Lady Clare upon the hill ! 
On which (for far the day was spent) 
The western sunbeams now were bent. 
The cry they heard, its meaning knew. 
Could plain their distant comrades view 
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
" Unworthy office here to stay I 
No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 
But see ! look up — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 

And sudden, as he spoke. 
From the sharp ridges of the hill, 
All downward to the banks of Till, 



Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and fast, and rolling far, 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
Announced their march ; their tread alone^ 
At times one warning trumpet blown, 

At times a stifled hum. 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. — 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes,. 

Ujitil at weapon-point they close. — 
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust ^ 

And such a yell was there, 
Of sudden and portentous birth, 
As if men fought upon the earth, 
And fiends in upper air; 
O life and death were in the shout. 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout. 

And triumph and despair. 
Long look'd the anxious squires ; their ey« 
Could in the darkness nought descry. ^ 

XXVI. 

At length the freshening western blast 
Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 
Above the brightening cloud appears ; 
And in the smoke the pennons flew, 
As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far. 
The broken billows of the war, 
And plumed crests of chieftains brave, 
Floating like foam upon the wave ; 

But nought distinct they see : 
Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain ; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again. 

Wild ^nd disorderly. 
A.iiid the scens of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 
.A.nd Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
Still bare them bravely in the fight • 

Although against them come, 
Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
And many a stubborn Highlandman, 
And many a rugged Border clan, 

With Huntly, and with Home. 

XXVII. 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; 

I Though there the western mountaineci 
Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear, 



MARMION. 



102 



And flung vKe feeble targe aside, 
And with botli hands the broadsword plied. 
'Twas vain : — But Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white, 

The Howard's lion fell ; 
Vet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 

Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now 
high, 

The pennon sunk and rose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It waver'd 'mid the foes. 
No longer Blount the view could bear : 
" By Heaven, and all its saints ! I swear 

I will not see it lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — 

1 gallop to the host." 
And to the fray he rode amain, 
Follow'd by all the archer train. 
The fiery youth, with desperate charge, 
Made, for a space, an opening large, — 

The rescued banner rose, — 
But darkly closed the war around. 
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 

It sunk among the foes. 
Then Eustace mounted too : — yet staid 
As loath to leave the helpless maid, 

When, fast as shaft can fly. 
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
The loose rein dangling from his head. 
Housing and saddle bloody red. 

Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by ; 
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 

A look and sign to Clara cast 

To mark he would return in haste, 
Then plunged into the fight. 



Ask me not what the maiden feels. 
Left in that dreadful hour alone : 

Perchance her reason stoops, or reels ; 
Perchance a courage, not her own, 
Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 

The scatter'd van of England wheels : — 
She only said, as loud in air 
The tumult roar'd, " Is Wilton there?" 
They fly, or, madden'd bv despair. 
Fight but to die,—" Is Wilton there ? " 

With that, straight up the hill there rode 



Two horsemen drench'd with gore, 
And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strain'd the broken brand ; 
His arms were smear'd with blood anS. 

sand. 
Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, 
With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
The falcon-crest and plumage gone, 
Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . 
Young Blount his armor did unlace, 
And, gazing on his ghastly face, 

Said — " By Saint George, he's gone ! 
That spear-wound has our master sped, 
And see the deep cut on his head! 

Good-night to Marmion." — 
" Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease : 
He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; " peace I" 

XXIX. 

When, doff' d his casque, he felt free air, 

Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — 

" Where's Harry Blount.? Fitz-Eustac* 

where ? 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain t 
Last of my race, on battle-plain 
That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 
Yet my last thought is England's — fly, 
To Dacre bear my signet-ring : 
Tell him his squadrons up to bring.— 
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 
Tunstall lies dead upon the field, 
His life-blood stains the spotless shieltf 
Edmund is down : — my life is reft; 
The Admiral alone is left. 
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,— 
With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host. 
Or victory and England's lost.— 
Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly? 
Leave Marmion here alone — to die.'' 
They parted, and alone he lay ; 
Clare drew hei frcm the sight away. 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmur'd,-^" Is there nonc^ 

Of all my halls have nurst. 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to brir^ 
Of blessed water from the spring. 
To slake my dying thirst ! " 

XXX, 

O, Woman ! in our hours of ease. 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
And variable as the shad© 
By the light quivering aspen made 3 



104 



SCOTT'S FOE TIC A L WORKS. 



When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! — 
Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran ; 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stoop'd her by the runnel's side, 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
For, oozing from the mountain's side, 
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn ? — behold her mark 

A little fountain cell. 
Where water, clear as diamond-spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half-v/orn letters say, 
iUrini). nu-ari). pUjjrim. iriuk. axO), prap. 
ifor. tl)c. ktnli. soul. of. ^ijbil. ©rep. 

HDbo. built, tijts. frn00. iinlr. lucll. 
She fill'd the helm, and back she hied. 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A monk supporting Marmion's head : 
A pious man, whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought, 

To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 



Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave — 
" Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
" Or injured Constance, bathes my head ? '' 

Then, as remembrance rose, — 
" Speak not to me of shrift or prayer I 

I must redress her woes. 
Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; 
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " — 
" Alas ! '' she said, " the while, — 
O, think of your immortal weal ! 
In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 

She died at Holy Isle.'' — 

Lord Marmion started from the ground, 
As light as if he felt no wound ; 
Though in the action burst the tide, 
In torrents, from his. wounded side. 
*• Then it was truth," — he said — " I knew 
That the dark presage must be true. — 
1 would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 

Would spare me but a day! 
For wastmg fire, and dying groan. 
And priests slain on the altar-stone, 

Might bribe him for delay. 
It. may not be I— this dizzy trance — 
Curse on yon base marauder's lance, 



And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
Then, fainting, down on earth he-sunk, 
Supported by the trembling Monk. 



With fruitless labor, Clara bound, 

And strove to stanch the gushing wound i 

The Monk, with unavailing cares. 

Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 

Ever, he said, that, close and near, 

A lady's voice was in his ear. 

And that the priest he could not hear, 

For that she ever sung, 
" In the lost battle, borne down by the flying^ 
Where mingles ivar's rattle "with groani 
of the dying! " 

So the notes rung ; — 
" Avoid thee. Fiend ! — with cruel hand, 
'Shake not the dying sinner's sand! — 
O, look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 

O, think on faith and bliss ! — 
By many a death-bed I have been, 
And many a sinner's parting seen. 

But never aught like this." — 
The war, that for a space did fail, 
Now trebly thundering swell' d the gale, 

And — Stanley ! was the cry ; 
A light on Marmion's visage spread. 

And fired his glazing eye ; 
With dying hand, above his head. 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted '' Victory ! — 
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on J < 
Were the last words of Marmion. 



By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell. 
For still the Scots, around their King, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
AVhere's now their victor vaward wing, 

Where Huntly, and where Home?-^ 
O, for a blast of that dread horn. 
On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to king Charles did come, 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died 1 
Such blast might warn them, not i« ^n, 
To quit the plunder cf the slain, 
And turn the doubtful day again, 

While yet on Flodden side, 
Afar, the Royal Standard flies. 



I 



MARMION. 



104 



And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies 

Our Caledonian pride! 
In vain the wish — for far awa3', 
While spoil and havoc mark their way, 
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray. — 
^ O, Lady," cried the Monk, " away ! " 

And placed her on her steed, 
And led her to the chapel fair. 

Of Tillmoiith upon Tweed. 
There all the night they spent in prayer, 
And at the dawn of morning, there 
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. 

XXXIV. 

But as they left the dark'ning heath. 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
The English shafts in volleys hail'd, 
In headlong charge their horse assail'd ; 
Front, flank; and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep. 

That fought around their King. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds 

go, 
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, 

Unbroken was the ring ; 
The stubborn spear-men still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood. 
Each stepping where his comrade stood, 

The instant that he fell. 
No thought was there of dastard flight ; 
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight,' 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight. 

As fearlessly and well ; 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded King. 
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
Led back from strife his shatter'd bands , 
And from the charge they drew. 
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his foeman know ; 
Their King, their Lords, their mightiest 

low, 
They melted from the field as snow. 
When streams are swoln and south winds 
blow, 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plasn. 

While many a broken band, 
Disorder'd, through her currents dash, 

To gain the Scottish land ; 
To town and tower, to down and dale. 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 
Shall many an age that wail prolong : 



Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife, and carnage dear, 

Of Flodden's fatal field, 
Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, 

And broken was her shield 1 

XXXV. 

Day dawns upon the mountain's side .•— 
There, Scotland 1 lay thy bravest pride. 
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one l 
The sad survivors all are gone — 
View not that corpse mistrustfully. 
Defaced and mangled though it be ; 
Nor to yon Border Castle high. 
Look northward with upbraiding eye ; 

Nor cherish hope in vain. 
That journeying far on foreign strand, 
The Royal Pilgrim to his land 

May yet return again. 
He saw the wreck his rashness vi-rought ; 
Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 

And fell on Flodden plain ; 
And well in death his trusty brand, 
Firm clench'd within his manly hand, 

Beseem'd the monarch slain. ''^ 
But, O ! how changed since yon blithe 

night !— 
Gladly 1 turn me from the sight, 

Unto my tale again. 



Short is my tale: — Fitz-Eustace' care 
A pierced and mangled body bare 
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ; 
And there, beneath the southern aisle, 
A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair. 
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear, 
( Now vainly for its sight you look ; 
'Twas levell'd when fanatic Brook 
The fair cathedral storm'd and took ; ^9 
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint 

Chad, 
A guerdon meet the spoiler had !) 
There erst was martial Marmion found 
His feet upon a couchant hound. 

His hands to heaven upraised ; 
And all around, on scutcheon rich, 
And tablet carved, and fretted niche, 

His arms and feats were blazed. 
And yet, though all was carved so fair, 
And priest for Marmion breathed the 

prayer, 
The last Lord Marmion lay not there. 
From Ettrick woods a peasant swain 
Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain, — 
One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay 
In Scotland mourns as " wede away: '' 



1 06 



SCOTT^S POETICAL WORKS, 



Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied, 
And dragg'd him to its foot, and died, 
Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the sLvlji, 
And thus their corpses were mista'en ; 
And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb, 
The lowly woodsman took the room. 

XXXVII. 

Less easy task it were, to show 

Ix)rd Marmion's nameless grave, and low. 

They dug his grave e'en where he la}', 
But every mark is gone ; 

Time's wasting hand has done away 

The simple cross of Sybil Grey, 
•And broke her font of stone : 
But yet from out the little hill 
Oozes the slender springlet stilL 

Oft halts the stranger there. 
For thence may best his curious eye 
The memorable field descry ; 

And shepherd boys repair 
To seek the water-flag and rush. 
And rest them by the hazel bush, 

And plait their garlands fair; 
Nor dream they sit upon the grave, 
That holds the bones of Marmion brave. — 
When thou shalt find the little hill. 
With thy heart commune, and be still 
If ever, in temptation strong, 
Thou left'st the right path for the wrong • 
If every devious step, thus trod, 
Still led thee farther from the road ; 
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom 
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; 
But say, " He died a gallant knight, 
With sword in hand, for England's right." 

xxxvni. 
I do not rhyme to that dull elf, 
Who cannot image to himself, 
That all through Flodden's dismal night, 
AVilton was foremost in the fight ; 
That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain, 
'Twas Wilton mounted him again ; 
'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hew'd, 
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood; 
Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall, 
tte was the living soul of all : 



That, after fight, his faith made plain. 

He won his rank and lands again ; 

And charged his old paternal shield 

With bearings won on Flodden field. 

Nor sing I to that simple maid, 

To whom it must in terms be said, 

That King and kinsmen did agree. 

To bless fair Clara's constancy ; 

Who cannot, unless I relate, 

Paint to her mind the bridal's state; 

Tliat Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, 

More, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the joke ; 

That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 

And Catherine's hand the stocking threw ; 

And afterwards, for many a day, 

That it was held enough to say, 

In blessing to a wedded pair, 

" Love they like Wilton and like Clare 1 '* 



VENVOY, 

TO THE READER. 

Why then a final note prolong, 

Or lengthen out a closing song, 

Unless to bid the gentles speed, 

WIio long have listed to my rede.-** 

To Statesmen grave, if such may deign 

To read the Minstrel's idle strain, 

Sound head, clean hands, and piercing wit. 

And patriotic heart — as Pitt ! 

A garland for the hero's crest. 

And twined by her he loves the best ; 

To every lovely lady bright. 

What can I wish but faithful knight ? 

To every faithful lover too, 

What can I wish but lady true ? 

And knowledge to the studious sage ; 

And pillow to the head of age. 

To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay 

Has cheated of thy hour of play, 

Light task, and merry holiday ! 

To all, to each, a fair good night, 

And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light! 



Story. 



THE 

LADY OF THE LAKE: 

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 



TO THE MOST NOBLE 

John james marquis of abercorn. 



KTC. ETC. ETC. 
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED 

THE AUTHOR. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

Arrsa the success of " Marmion," I felt inclined to exclaim with Ulysses in the " Odyssey**— 

OuTO? |u.eV 5rj a.eB\o<; aaaro? eKTeTeAetrrai. 
Isvv avre (tkottov aWov. — Odys. x- !• 5' 

" One venturous game my hand has won to-day— 
Another, gallants, yet remains to play." 

The ancient manners, the habits and customs, of the aboriginal race by whom the Highland* 
of Scotland were inhabited, had always appeared to me peculiarly adapted to poetry. The 
change in their manners, too, had taken place almost within my own time, or at least I had 
learned many particulars concerning the ancient state of the Highlands from the old men of tlie 
last generation. I had always thought the old Scottish Gael highly adapted for poetical com- 
position. The lends, and political dissensions, which, half a century earlier, would have rerfdered 
the richer and wealthier part of the kingdom indisposed to countenance a poem the scene of 
which was laid in the Highlands, were now sunk in the generous compassion which the English, 
more than any other nation, feel for the misfortunes of an honorable foe. The Poems of Ossian 
had, by their popularity, sufficiently shown, that if writings on Highland subjects were 
qualified to interest, the reader, mere national prejudices were, in the present day, very unlikely 
to interfere with their success- 

I had also read a great deal, seen much, and heard more, of that romantic country, v/here I 
was in the habit of spending some time every autumn ; and the scenery of Loch Katrine was 
connected with the_ recollection of many a dear friend and merry expedition of former days. 
This poem, the action of which lay among scenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on my 
recollection, was a labor of love, and it was no less so to recall the manners and incidents 
mtroduced. The frequent custom of James TV., and particularly of James V., to walk through 
their kingdom in disguise, afforded me the hint of an incident, which never fails to be 
interesting, if managed with the slightest address or dexterity. 

I rnay now confess, however, that the employment, though attended with great pleasure, wa« 
not without its doubts and anxieties. A lady, to whom I was nearly related, and with whom I 

(107) 



loS scorrs poetical works. 

lived, during her whole life, on the most brotherly terms of affection, was residing with me at the 
time when the work was in progress, and used to asl< me, what I could possibly do to rise so 
early in the morning (that happening to he the most convenient time to me for composition). 
At last I told her the subject of my meditations ; and I can never forget the anxiety and 
affection expressed in her reply. *' Do not be so rash," she said, *' my dearest cousin. You are 
already popular — more so. perhaps, than you yourself will believe, or than even I, or other 
partial friends, can fairly allow to your merit. You stand higli — do not rashly attempt to climb 
higher, and incur the risk of a fall ; for, depend upon it, a favorite will not be permitted even 
to stumble with impunity." I replied to tliis affectionate expostulation in the words of Mont- 
rose — 

** He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
Who dares not put it to the touch 

To gain or lose it all." 

" If I fail," I said, for the dialogue is strong in my recollection, " it is a sign that I ought 
never to have succeeded, and I will write prose for life: you shall see no Change in my temper, 
nor will 1 eat a single meal the worse. But if I succeed, — 

* Up with the bonnie blue bonnet. 
The dirk, and the feather, and a' ! ' " 

Afterwards I showed my affectionate and anxious critic the first canto of the poem, which 
reconciled her to my imprudence. Nevertheless, although I answered thus confidently, with th* 
obstinacy often said to be proper to those who bear my surname, I ^ck.iowledge tliat my con- 
fidence was considerably shaken by the warning of her excellent laste and unbiassed friend- 
ship. Nor was I much comforted by her retraction of the unfavorable judgment, when I 
recollected how likely a natural partiality was to affect that change of opinion. In such cases, 
affection rises like a light on the canvas, improves any favorable tints which it formerly exhibited, 
and throws its defects into the shade. 

I remember that about the same time a friend started in to "heeze up my hope," like the 
"sportsman with his cutty-gun," in the old song. He was bred a farmer, but a man of powerful 
understanding, natural good taste, and warm poetical feeling, perfectly competent to supply the 
wants of an imperfect or irregular education. He was a passionate admirer of field-sports, which 
we often pursued together. 

As this friend happened to dine with me at Ashestiel one daj', I took the opportunity of 
reading to him the first canto of "Tlie Lady of the Lake,", in order to ascertain the effect the 
poem was likely to produce upon a person who was but too favorable a representative of readers 
at large. It is, of course, to be supposed, that I determined rather to guide my opinion by what 
my friend might appear to feel, than by what he might think fit to say. His reception of my 
recitation, or prelection, was rather singular. He placed his hand across his brow, and listened 
with great attention through the whole account of the stag-hunt, till the dogs threw themselves 
into the lake to follow their master, who embarks with Ellen Douglas. He then started up with 
a sudden exclamation, struck his hand on the table, and declared, in a voice of censure calcu' 
lated for the occasion, that the dogs must have been totally ruined by being permitted to take 
the water after such a severe chase. I own I was much encouraged by the species of reverie 
which had possessed so zealous a follower of the sports of the ancient Nimrod, who had been 
completely surprised out of all doubts of the reality of the tale. Another of his remarks gave 
me less pleasure. He detected the identity of the King with the wandering knight, Fitz-James, 
when he winds his bugle to summon his attendants. He was probably thinking of the lively, 
but somewhat licentious, old ballad, in which the denouement of a royal intrieue takes place as 
follows : — 

" He took a bugle frae his side. 
He blew both loud and shrill. 
And four-and-twenty belted knight 

Came skipping ower the hill ; 
Then he took out a little knife, 

Let a' hisduddiesfa', 
And he was the brawest gentleman 
That was amang them a'. 

And we'll go no more a-roving," &c. 



'Hie Jolly Beggar, attributed to King Lames Y. — Herd'' % Collection^ ijri. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 109 

This discovery, as Mr. Pepys says of the rent in his camlet cloak, was but a tiifle, yet it 
troubled me ; and I was at a good deal of pains to efface any marks by which I thought my 
secret could be traced before the conclusion, when I relied on it with the same hope of produc- 
ing effect, with which the Irish post-boy is said to Reserve a " trot for the avenue." 

I took uncommon pains to verify the accuracy of the local circumstances of this story. I 
recollect, in particular, that to ascertain whether I was telling a probable tale, I went into 
Perthshire, to see whether King James could actually have ridden from the banks of Loch 
Vennachar to Stirling Castle within the time supposed in the Poem, and had the pleasure to 
satisfy myself that it was quite practicable. 

After a considerable delay, " Tlie Lady of the Lake" appeared in May, 1810; and its 
success was certaiiTly so extraordinary as to induce me for the mom.ent to conclude that I had at 
last fixed a nail in the proverbially inconstant wheel of Fortune, whose stability in behalf of an 
individual who had so boldly courted her favors for three successive times had not as yet been 
shaken._ I had attained, perhaps, that degree of public reputation at wliich prudence, or cer- 
tainly timidity, would have made a halt, and discontinued efforts by which I was far more likely 
to diminish rny fame than to increase it. But, as the celebrated John Wilkes is said to have 
explained to his late Majest)', that he himself, amid his full tide of popularity, was never a 
Wilkite, so I can, with the honest truth, exculpate myseif from having been at any time a par- 
tisan of my own poetry, even when it was in the highest fashion with the million. It must not 
be supposed that I was either so ungrateful, or so superabundantly candid, as to despise or 
scorn the value of those whose voice had elevated me so much higher than my own opinion told 
me I deserved. I felt, on the contrary, the more grateful to the public, as receiving that frorrj 
partiality to me, which I could not have claimed from merit ; and I endeavored to deserve the 
partiality, by continuing such exertions as I was capable of for their amusement. 

It may be that I did not, in this continued course of scribbling, consult either the interest gf 
the public or my own. But the former had effectual means of defending themselves, and could, 
by their coldness, sufficiently check any approach to intrusion ; and for myself, 1 had now for 
several years dedicated my hours so much to literary labor, that I should have felt difficulty in 
employing myself otherwise ; and so, like Dogberry, I generously bestowed all my tediousness on 
the public, comforting myself with the reflection, that if posterity should think me undeserving 
of the favor with which I was regarded by my contemporaries, " they could not but say I had 
the crown," and had enjoyed for a time that popularity which is so much coveted. 

I conceived, however, that I held the distinguished situation I had obtained, however un- 
worthily, rather like the champion of pugilism, on the condition of being always ready to show 
proofs of my skill, than in the manner of the champion of chivalry, who performs his duties only 
on rare and solemn occasions. I was in any case conscious that I could not long hold a situation 
which the caprice, rather than the judgment, of the public, had bestowed upon me, and jDreferred 
being deprived of my precedence by some more worthy rival, to sinking into contempt for my 
indolence, and losing my reputation by what Scottish lawyers call the negative prescription. 
Accordingly, those who chose to look at the Introduction to Rokeby, in the present edition, will 
be able to trace the steps by which I declined as a poet to figure as a novelist ; as the ballad 
says, Queen Eleanor sunk at Charing-Cross to rise again at Queenhithe. 

It only remains forme to say, that, during my short pre-eminence of popularity, I faithfully 
observed the rules of moderation which I had resolved to follow before I began my course as a 
man of letters. If a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to encounter 
abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village must reckon on being followed 
by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know, that in stretching to flog the latter, the 
r}der is very apt to catch a bad fail : nor is aii attempt to chastise a malignant critic attended 
with less danger to the author. On this principle, 1 let parody, burlesque, and squibs, find their 
OMrn level ; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was cautious never to catch them up, as 
.schoolboys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely remem- 
ibering that they are. In such cases, apt to explode in the handling. Let me add, that my reign 
*(since Byron has so called it) was marked by some instances of good-nature as well as patience. 
I never refused a literary person cf merit such services in smoothing his way to the public aa 
were in my power : and I had the advantage, rather an uncommon one with our irritable race, to 
enjoy general favor, without incurring permanent ill-will, so far as is known to me, among any of 
my contemporaries. 

w. s. 

Abbotsfokd, April., 1830. 

The Scene of the following Poem is laid chiefly in the Vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the 
Western Highlands of Perthshire. The time of A ction includes Six Days, and the trans' 
mcti»*u of each Day occupy a Canto. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE, 



CANTO FIRST. 



THE CHASE. 



Harp of the North ! that mouldering long 
hast hung 
On the witch-ehn that shades Saint Fil- 
lan's spring, 
And down the fitful breeze thy numbers 
flung,_ 
Till envious ivy did around thee cling, 
Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, — 
O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents 
sleep { 
Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmur- 
ing. 
Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence 
keep, 
Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to 
weep ? 

Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
Was thy voice mute amid the festal 
crowd, 
When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, 
Aroused the fearful, or subdued the 
proud. 
At each according pause, was heard aloud 
Thine ardent symphony sublime and 
high! 
Fair dames and crested chiefs attention 
bow'd ; 
For still the burden of thy minstrelsy 
Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and 
Beauty's matchless eye. 

O wake once morel how rude soe'er the 
hand 
That ventures o'er thy magic maze to 
stray ; 
wake once more ! though scarce my skill 
command 
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: 
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die 
away, 
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain. 
Vet if one heart throb higher at its sway, 
The wizard note has not been touch'd in 
vam. 
Then silent be no morel Enchantress, 
wake again 1 



The stag at eve had drunk his fill, 

Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, 

And deep his midnight lair had made 

In lone Glenartney's hazel shade ; 

But, when the sun his beacon red 

Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,* 

The deep^nouth'd bloodhound's heavy bay 

Resounded up the rocky way, 

And faint, from fart'^ir distance borne, 

Were heard the clanji of hoof and horn. 



II. 

As Chief, who hears his warder call, 
" To arms 1 the foemen storm the wall," 
The antler'd monarch of the waste 
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. 
But, ere his fleet career he took, 
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ; 
Like crested leader proud and high, 
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky ; 
A moment gazed adown the dale, 
A moment snuff'd the tainted gale, 
A moment listen'd to the cry. 
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh ; 
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd, 
With one brave bound the copse he clear*d 
And, stretching forward free and far. 
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. 

III. 

Yell'd on the view the opening pack ; 
Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back ; 
To many a mingled sound at once 
The awaken'd mountain gave response. 
A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, 
Clatter'd a hundred steeds along. 
Their peal the merry horns rung out, 
A hundred voices join'd the shout; 
With hark and whoop and wild halloo. 
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. 
Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
Close in her covert cower'd the doe, 
The falcon, from her cairn on high, 
Cast on the rout a wondering eye, 



* One of the Grampian chain of mountain 
at the head of the Valley of the Garry. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



Till far beyond her piercing ken 
The hurricane had swept the glen. 
Faint and more faint, its failing din 
Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn, 
And silence settled, wide and still. 
On the lone wood and mighty hill. 



Less loud the sounds of sylvan war 
Disturb'd the heights of Uam-Var, 
And roused the cavern, where 'tis told, 
A giant made his den of old ; ' 
For ere that steep ascent was won, 
High in his pathway hung the sun, 
And many a gallant, stay'd perforce, 
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse. 
And of the trackers of the deer, 
Scarce half the lessening pack was near; 
So shrewdly on the mountain side 
Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 



The noble stag was pausing now. 
Upon the mountain's southern brow, 
Where broad extended, far beneath. 
The varied realms of fair Menteith. 
With anxious eye he wander'd o'er 
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, 
And ponder'd refuge from his toil. 
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 
But nearer was the copsev/ood gray. 
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 
And mingled with the pine-trees blue 
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. 
Fresh vigor with the hope return'd, 
With flying foot the heath he spurn'd, 
Held westward with unwearied race, 
And left behind the panting chase. 



'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er. 
As swept the hunt through Cambus-more ; 
What reins were tighten'd in despair, 
When rose Benledi's ridge in air ; *• 
Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath. 
Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith,t- 
For twice that day, from shore to shore, 
)The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 
Few were the stragglers, following far, 
That reaeh'd the lake of Venachar ; 
And when th? Brigg % of Turk was won, 
The headmost horseman rode alone. 



VII. 



* Benledi is a high mountain on the north- 
west of Callender. Its name signifies the 
mountain of God. 

t A river which gives its name to the 
territory of Menteith. 

% Brigs a bridgs. 



Alone, but with unbated zeal, 

That horseman plied the scourge and stee! ; 

For jaded now, and spent with toil, 

Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil, 

While every gasp with sobs he drew. 

The laboring stag strain'd full in view. 

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 

Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed,^ 

Fast on his flying traces came, 

And all but won that desperate game ; 

For, scarce a spear's length from his 

haunch. 
Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds staunch ; 
Nor nearer might the dogs attain. 
Nor farther might the quarry strain. 
Thus up the margin of the lake. 
Between the precipice and brake, 
O'er stock and rock their race they take. 



The Hunter mark'd that mountain high, 
The lone lake's western boundary, 
And deem'd the stag must turn to bay. 
Where that huge rampart barr'd the way 
Already glorying in the prize, 
Measured his antlers with his eyes ; 
For the death-wound and death-halloo, 
Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew ; ^ — 
But thundering as he came prepared, 
With ready arm and weapon bared, 
The wily quarry shunn'd the shock. 
And turn'cl him from the opposing rock , 
Then, dashing down a darksome glen, 
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, 
In the deep Trosach's wildest nook 
His solitary refuge took. 
There, while close couch'd, the thicket shed 
Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head. 
He heard the baffled dogs in vain 
Rave through the hollow pass amain, 
Chiding the rocks that yell'd again. 



Close on the hounds the Hunter came, 
To cheer them on the vanish'd game ; 
But, stumbling in the rugged dell, 
The gallant horse exhausted fell. 
The impatient rider strove in vain 
To rouse him with the spur and rein, 
For the good steed, his labors o'er, 
Stretch'd his stiff limbs to rise no more 
Then, touch'd with pity and remorse, 
He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse. 
'• I little thought, when first thy reitt 
I slack'd upon the banks of Seine, 



112 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That Highland eagle e'er should feed 
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed . 
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, 
That costs thy life, my gallant gray 1 " 



Then fhrough the dell his horn resounds. 
From vam pursuit to call the hounds. 
Back limp'd, with slow and crippled pace, 
The sulky leaders of the chase ; 
Close to their master's side they press'd. 
With droopincj tale and humbled crest ; 
But still the dingle's hollow throat 
Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note. 
The owlets started from their dream. 
The eagles answer'd with their scream, 
Round and around the sounds were cast, 
Till echo seem'd an answering blajt; 
And on the Hunter hied his way, 
f o join somo comrades of the day ; 
fet often paused, sc .-trange the road, 
)o wondrous were the scenes it show'd. 



The western waves cf ebbing day 
Roll'd o'er the glen their level way ; 
Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
But not a setting beam could glow 
Within the dark ravines below. 
Where tv/ined the path in shadow hid, 
Round many a rocky pyramid. 
Shooting abruptly from tlie dell 
Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle ; 
Round many an insulated mass. 
The native bulwarks of the pass, 
Huge as the tower* which builders vain 
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
The rocky summits, split and rent, 
Form'd turret, dome, or battlement, 
Or seem'd fantastically set 
With cupola or minaret. 
Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd, 
Or mosque of Eastern architect. 
Nor were these earth-born castles bare. 
Nor lack'd they many a banner fair ; 
For, from their shivei'd brows display'd. 
Far o'er the unfathomable glade, 
All twinkling with the dew-drops sheen. 
The brier-rose fell in streamers green. 
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, 
Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 

XII. 

P»oon nature scatter'd, free and wild, 
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. 



• The Tower of Babal.— Genesis xi. i-g 



Here eglantine embalm'd the air, 
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ; • 
The primrose pale and violet flower, 
Found in each cliff a narrow bower ; 
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by aide, 
Emblems of punishment and pride, 
Group'd their dark hues with every stain 
The weather-beaten crags retain. 
With boughs tliat quaked at every breathy 
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath ; 
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
Cast anchor in the rifted reck ; 
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, 
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high, 
His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky. 
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, 
Where glist'ning streamers waved and 

danced, 
The wanderer's eye could barely view 
The summer heaven's delicious blue ; 
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
The scenery of a fairy dream. 



Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
A narrow mlet, still and deep. 
Affording scarce such breadth of brim, 
As served the wild duck's brood to swim. 
Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 
But broader when again appearing, 
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face 
Could on the dark-blue mirror trace ; 
And farther as the hunter stray'd. 
Still broader sweeps its channels made. 
The shaggy mounds no longer stood. 
Emerging from entangled wood, 
But, wave-encircled, seem'd to float, 
Like castle girdled with its moat; 
Yet broader floods extending still 
Divide them from their parent hill. 
Till eacli, retiring, claims to. be 
An islet in an inland sea. 



And now, to issue from the glen. 

No pathway meets the wanderer's ken. 

Unless he climb, with footing nice, 

A far projecting precipice.'* 

The broom's tough roots his ladder made, 

The hazel saplings lent their aid ; 

.'\nd thus an airy point he won, 

Where, gleaming with the setting sun, 

One burnish'd sheet of living gold, 

Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd, 

In all her length far winding lay, 

With promontory, creek, and bay. 



THE LAD Y OF THE LAKE. 



^3 



And islands that, empurpled bright, 

Floated amid the livelier light, 

And mountains, that like giants stand, 

To sentinel enchanted land. 

High on the south, huge Benvenue 

Down on the lake in masses threw 

Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly 

hurl'd, 
The fragments of an earlier world ; 
A wildering forest feather'd o'er 
His rum'd sides and summit hoar, 
While on the north, through middle air, 
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 

XV. 

From the steep promontory gazed 
The stranger, raptured and amazed. 
And, " What a scene were here," he cried, 
•' For princely pomp, or churchman's pride 1 
On this bold brow, a lordly tower ; 
In that soft vale, a lady's bower ; 
On yonder meadow, far away, 
The turrets of a cloister gray ; 
How blithely might the bugle-horn 
Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn 1 
How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute 
Chime, when the groves were still and 

mute ! 
And, when the midniglit moon should lave 
Her forehead in the silver wave. 
How solemn on the ear would come 
The holy matins' distant hum, 
While the deep peal's commanding tone 
Should wake, m yonder islet lone, 
A sainted hermit from his cell, , 
To drop a bead with every knell — 
And bugle, lute, and bell, and all. 
Should each bewilder'd stranger call 
To friendly feast, and lighted hall. 



•* Blithe were it then to wancler here' 
But now, — beshrew yon nimble deer,— 
Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, 
The copse must give my evening fare ; 
Some mossy bank my couch must be, 
Some rustling oak my canopy. 
Yet pass we'that ; the war and chase 
Give little choice of resting-place ; — 
A summer night, in greenwood spent, 
Were but to-morrow's merriment : 
But hosts may in these wilds abound, 
Such as are better miss'd than found ; 
To meet with Higliland plunderers here. 
Were worse than loss of steed or deer. — * 
I am alone ;— my bugle strain 
May call some straggler of the train \ 
8 



Or, fall the worst that may betide, 
Ere now this falchion has been tried.'* 

XVII. 

But scarce again his horn he wound, 

When lo I forth starting at the sound 

From underneath an aged oak, 

That slanted from the islet rock, 

A damsel guider of its v/ay, 

A little sktff shot to the bay, 

That round the promontoj-y steep 

Led its deep line in graceful sweep, 

Eddying in almost viewless wave. 

The weeping willow-twig to 'ave. 

And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, 

The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 

The boat had touch'd this silver strand, 

Just as the Hunter left his stand, 

And stood conceal'd amid the brake, 

To view this Lady of the Lake, 

The maiden paused, as if again 

She thought to catch the distant strain 

With head up-raised, and look mtent, 

And eye and ear attentive bent, 

And locks flung back, and lips apart, 

Like monument of Grecian art. 

In listening mood, she seem'd to stand. 

The guardian Naiad of the strand. 



And ne'er did -Grecian chisel trace 

A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 

Of finer form, or lovelier face ! 

What though the sun, with ardent frovsrn, 

Had slightly tinged her cheek with brownj'- 

The sportive toil, which, short and light 

Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, 

Served too in hastier swell to show 

Short glimpses of a breast of snow : 

What though no rule of courtly grace 

To measured mood had train'd her pace, — 

A foot more light, a step more irue. 

Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'dthe dewi 

E'en the slight harebell raised its head, 

Elastic from her airy tread : 

What though upon her speech there hun 

The accents of the mountain tongue, — 

Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear. 

The listener held his breath to hear I 



A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid ; 
Her satm snood,* her silken plaid, 
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. 



* Snood, the fillet worn round the hair of 
maidens 



114 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And seldom was a snood amid 

Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 

Whose glossy black to shame might bnng 

The plumage of the raven's wing ; 

And seldom o'er a breast so fair, 

Mantled a plaid with modest care. 

And never brooch the folds combined 

Above a heart more good and kind. 

Her kindness and her worth to spy, 

You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; 

,Not Katrine, in her mirroi blue, 

Gives back the shaggy banks more true, 

Than every free-born glance confess'd 

The guileless movements of her breast ; 

Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 

Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh, 

Or filial love was glowing there, 

Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer, 

Or tale of injury call'd forth 

The indignant spirit of the North. 

One only passion unreveal'd, 

With maiden pride the maid conceal'd, 

Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — 

O need I tell that passion's name 1 



Impatient of the silent horn, 
Now on the gale her voice was borne ; — 
" Father ! " she cried ; the rocks around 
Loved to prolong the gentle sound. 
Awhile she paused, no answer, came, — 
" Malcolm, was thine the blast?'' the name 
Less resolutely utter'd fell, 
The echoes could not catch the swell. 
"A stranger I," the Huntsman said, 
Advancing from the hazel shade. 
The maid, alarm'd, with hasty oar, 
Push'd her light shallop from the shore, 
And when a space was gain'd between, 
Closer she drew her bosom's screen ; 
(So forth the startled swan would swing, 
So turn to prune his ruffled wing.) 
Then safe, though fllutter'd and amazed, 
She paused and on the stranger gazed. 
Not his the form, nor his the eye, 
That youthful maidens wont to fly. 

XXI. 

On his bold visage middle age 
Had slightly press'd its signet sage 
Ifet had not quencti'd the open truth 
(Vnd fiery vehemence of youth ; 
For^vard and frolic glee was there. 
The will to do, the soul to dare. 
The sparklmg glance, soon blown to fire. 
Of hasty love, or headlong ire. 



His limbs were cast in manly mould, 

For hardy sports or contest bold ; 

And though in peaceful garb array'd. 

And weaponless, except his blade. 

His stately mien as well implied 

A high-born heart, a martial pride, 

As if a Baron's crest he wore. 

And sheathed in armor trode the shore. 

Slighting the petty need he show'd, 

He told of his benighted road ; 

His ready speecii flow'd fair and free, 

In phrase of gentlest courtesy ; 

Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland, 

Less used to sue than to command. 



A while the maid the stranger eyed, 
And, reassured, at length replied. 
That Highland halls were open still 
To wilder'd wanderers of the hill. 
" Nor think you unexpected come 
To yon lone isle, our desert home ; 
Before the heath had lost the dew. 
This morn, a couch was pull'd for you; 
On yonder mountain's purple head 
Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bied, 
And o\ir broad nets have swept the mere. 
To furnish forth your evening cheer." — 
" Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, 
Your courtesy has err'd," he said ; 
" No right have I to claim, misplaced. 
The welcome of expected guest. 
A wanderer, here by fortune tost. 
My way, my friends, my courser lost, 
I ne'er before, believe me, fair. 
Have ever drawn your moun*^.ain air. 
Till on this lake's romantic strand, 
I found a fay in fairy land ! ■' — 



" I well believe," the maid replied. 

As her light skiff approach'd the side,— 

" I well believe, that ne'er before 

Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore \ 

But yet, as far as yesternight, 

Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight,— 

A gray-hair'd sire, whose eye intent 

Was on the vision'd future bent.^ 

He saw your steed, a dappled gray. 

Lie dead beneath the birchen way ; 

Painted exact your form and mien. 

Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, 

That tassell'd horn so gayly gilt, 

That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, 

That cap with heron plumage trim, 

And yon two hounds so dark and grim. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



He b^v^e th.-»t all should ready be, 

To giacr a gues*- of fair degree ; 

But light I iield h>s prophecy, 

And deei-ii'd it w^s Piy father's horn, 

Whose echoes o'ei the lake were borne." 

The stranger smiled : — ** Since to yp*ii 

home 
'A destined errant-knij^ht I co^ne, 
Announced by prophet i>Doih aixd '>1J, 
&)oom'd, doubtless, for ackievemcnv \>\A^ 
Til lightly front each high emprise, 
For one kind glance of those bright e^e^. 
Permit me, first, the task to guide 
Your fau-y frigate o'er the tide." 
The maid, with smile suppress'd and sb 
The toil unwonted saw him try ; 
For seldom sure, if e'er before, 
His noble hand had grasp'd an oar : 
Yet with main strength his strokes he drew, 
And o'er the lakethe shallop flew ; 
With heads erect, and whimpering cry, 
The hounds behind their passage ply. 
Nor frequent does the bright oar break 
The clark'nmg mirror of the lake, 
Until the rocky isle they reach, 
And moor their shallop on the beach. 



The stranger view'd the shore around, 
'Twas all so close with copsewood bound, 
Nor track nor pathway might declare 
That human foot frequented there, 
Until the mountain-maiden show'd 
A clambering unsuspected road, 
That winded through the tangled screen, 
And open'd on a narrow green, 
Where weeping birch and willow round 
W^ith their long fibres swept the ground. 
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, 
Some chief had framed a rustic bower.' 

XXVI. 

It was a lodge of ample size. 

But strange of structure and device , 

Of such materials, as around 

The workman's hand had readiest found. 

Xopp'd off their boughs, their hoar trunks 

bared. 
And by the hatchet rudely squared, 
To give the walls their destined height. 
The sturdy oak and ash unite ; 
While moss and clay and leaves combined 
To fence each crevice from the wind. 
The lighter pine-trees, over-head, 
Their slender length for rafters spread, 
And wither'd heath and rushes dry , 



Supplied a russet canopy. 

Due westward, fronting to the green, 

A rural portico was seen, 

Aloft on native pillars borne, 

Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn, 

Where Ellen's hand had taught lo twine 

The ivy and Idaean vine, 

The clematis, the favor'd flower 

Which boasts the name of virgin-bn'V'^'^, 

And every hardy plant could bear 

Loch Katrine's keen and searching al 

An instant in this porch she staid. 

And gayiy to the stranger said, 

" On heaven and on thy lady call, 

An(^ enter the enchanted hall 1 " 



" My hope, my heavei, my trust must K \ 
My geinle guide, in following thee." 
He cross'd the threshold— and a claag 
Of angry steei that instant rang. 
To his bold brow l>is spirit insh'd. 
But soon for vain aiarm he .bl:;sh'd, 
When on the floor he saw display 'd. 
Cause of the din, e naked blade 
Dropp'd from the sheath, t>iat car<»^ 

flung 
Upon a stag's huge antlers swung ; 
For all around, the walls to grace;. 
Hung trophies of the fight or chase : 
A target there, a bugle here, 
A battle-axe, a hunting-spear, 
And broadswords, bows, and arrows rX*"- 
With the tusk'd trophies of the boar. 
Here grins the wolf as when he died. 
And there the wild<at's brindled hide 
The frontlet of the elk adorns, 
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns ; 
Pennons and flags defaced and stain'd, 
That blackening streaks of blood retaiii'J^. 
And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, 
With otter's fur and seal's unite. 
In rude and uncouth tapestry all 
To garnish forth the sylvan hall. 



The wondering stranger round him gazed, 

And next the fallen weapon raised : — 

Few were the arms whose sinewy strength 

Sufficed to stretch it forth at length, 

And as the brand he poised and sway'd, 

" I never knew but one," he said, 

" Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield 

A blade like this in battle-field." 

She sigh'd, then smiled and took the word: 

« You see the euardian chamr'""'s sword: 



il6 



scorrs poetical works. 



As light it trembles in his hand, 

As in my grasp a hazel wand ; 

My sire's tall foim might grace the part 

Of Ferragus or Ascabart ; ^ 

But in the absent giant's hold 

Are women now, and menials old." 



The mistress of the mansion came, 

Mature of age, a graceful dame ; 

Whose easy step and stately port 

Had well become a princely court, 

To whom, though more than kindred knew, 

Young Ellen gave a mother's due. 

Meet welcome to her guest she made, 

And every courteous rite was paid, 

That hospitality could claim. 

Though all unask'd his birth and name.9 

Such then the reverence to a guest, 

That fellest foe might join the feast. 

And from his deadliest foeman's door 

Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er. 

At length his rank the stranger names, 

" The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz- 

James ; 
Lord of a barren heritage, 
Which his brave sires, from age to age, 
By their good swords had held with toil ; 
His sire had fallen in such turmoil, 
And he, God wot, was forced to stand 
Oft for his right with blade in hand. 
This morning, with Lord Moray's train, 
He chased a stalwart stag in vain, 
Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer, 
Lost his good steed, and wander'd here." 

XXX 

Fain would the knight in turn require 
The name and state of Ellen's sire. 
Well show'd the elder lady's mien, 
That courts and cities she had seen ; 
Ellen, though more her looks display'd 
The- simple grace of sylvan maid. 
In speech and gesture, form and face, 
Show'd she was come of gentle race. 
'Twere strange, in ruder rank to find, 
Such looks, such manners, and such mind. 
Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave, 
Dame Margaret heard with silence grave ; 
Or Ellen, innocently gay, 
Turn'd all inquiry light away : — 
" Weird women we ! by dale and down 
We dwell, afar from tower and town. 
We stem the flood, we ride the blast, 
On wandering knights our spells we cast ; 



While viewless minstrels touch the string, 
'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing.'i 
She sung, and still a harp unseen 
Fill'd up the symphony between. 



" Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 

Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking J, 
Dream of battled fields no more, 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall, 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
Fairy strains of music fall. 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er. 
Dream of fighting fields no more : 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

" No rude sound shall reach thine ear. 

Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, 
Trump nor pibroch summon here 

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping ;. 
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 

At the day-break from the fallow, 
And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
Ruder sounds shall none be near. 
Guards nor warders challenge here ; 
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, 
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping." 

XXXII. 

She paused — then, blushing, led the lay 
To grace the stranger of the day. 
Her mellow notes awhile prolong 
The cadence of the flowing song. 
Till to her lips in measured frame 
The minstrel verse spontaneous came. 

SONG CONTINUED. 

" Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 

While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, 
Dream not, with the rising sun, 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
Sleep I nor dream in yonder glen. 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 
Think not of the rising sun, 
For at dawning to assail ye, 
Here no bugles sound reveille." 

XXXIII. 

The hall was clear'd — the stranger's bed 
Was there of mountain heather spread, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE, 



"7 



Where oft a hundred guests had lain, 
And dream'd their forest sports again. 
But vainly did the heath-flower shed 
Its moorland fraf;rance round his head ; 
Not Ellen's spell had luU'd to rest 
The fever of his troubled breast. 
In broken dreams the image rose 
Of varied perils, pains, and woes : 
His steed now flounders in tlie break, 
Now sinks his barge upon the lake ; 
Now leader of a broken host, 
His standard falls, his honor's lost. 
Then, — from my couch may heavenly might 
Chase that worst phantom of tlie night ! — 
Again return'd the scenes of youth. 
Of confident undoubting truth ; 
Again his soul he interchanged 
With friends whose hearts were long es- 
tranged. 
They come, in dim procession led. 
The cold, the faithless, and the dead ; 
As warm each hand, each brow as gay, 
As if they parted yesterday. 
And doubt distracts him at the view. 
O, were his senses false or true ? 
Dream'd he of death, or broken vow, 
Or is it all a vision now ? 

XXXIV. 

At length, with Ellen in a grove 

He seem'd to walk, and speak of love ; 

She listen'd with a blush .and sigh, 

His suit was warm, his hopes were high, 

He sought her yielded hand to clasp, 

And a cold gauntlet met his grasp : 

The phantom's sex was changed and gone. 

Upon its head a helmet shone ; 

Slowlv enlarged to giant size. 

With darken'd cheek and threatening eyes, 

The grisly visage, stern and hoar, 

To Ellen stiil a likeness bore. — 

He woke, and panting with affright, 

Recall'd the vision of the night. 

The hearth's decaying brands were red, 

And deep and dusky lustre shed, 

Half showing, half concealing, all 

The uncouth trophies of the hall. 

'Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye, 

Where that huge falchion hung on high, 

And thoughts on thoughts, a countless 

throng, 
Rush'd, chasing countless thoughts along, 
Until, the giddy whirl to cure. 
He rose, and sought the moonship^ pure. 

XXXV. 

The wild rose, eglantine, and broom. 
Wafted around their i-ich perfume : 



The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm, 

The aspens slept beneath the calm ; 

The silver light, with quivering glance, 

Play'd on the water's still expanse, — 

Wild were the heart whose passions' sway 

Could rage beneath the sober ray I 

He felt its calm, that v/arrior guest, 

While thus he communed with his breast ;- 

" Why is it, at each turn I trace 

Some memory of that exiled race ! 

Can I not mountam-maiden spy, 

But 'she must bear the Douglas eye? 

Can I not view a Highland brand. 

But it must match the Douglas hand? 

Can I not frame a fever'd dream. 

But still the Douglas is the theme ? 

rn dream no more — by manly mind 

Not even in sleep is will resign'd. 

My midnight orisons said o'er, 

I'll turn to rest, and dream no more.'* 

His midnight orisons he told, 

A prayer with every bead of gold, 

Consign'd to heaven his cares and woes, 

And sunk in undisturb'd repose ; 

Until the heath-cock shrilly crew, 

And morning dawn'd on Benvenue. 



CANTO SECOND. 



THE ISLAND 



At morn the black-cock trims his jetty 
wing, 
'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blith- 
est lay. 
All Nature's children feel the matin spring 

Of life reviving, with reviving day ; 
And while yon little bark glides down tlie 
bay. 
Wafting the stranger on his way again. 
Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel 
gray, 
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy 
strain, 
Mix'd with the sounding harp, O whit© 
hair'd Allan-Bane ! ^° 



SONG. 

" Not faster yonder rowers' might 
Flings from their oars the spray, 
Not faster yonder rippling bright. 
That tracks the shallop's course in light, 
Melts in the lake away, 



ii8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Than men from memory erase 

Tlie benefits of former days ; 

Then, stranger, go ! good speed the while, 

Nor think again of the lonely isle. 

" High place to thee in royal court, 

High place in battle line. 
Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport, 
Where beauty sees the brave resort, 

The honor'd meed be thine ! 
True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, 
Thy lady constant, kind, and dear. 
And lost in love and friendship's smile 
Be memory of the lonely isle. 



SONG CONTINUED. 

" But if beneath yon southern sky 

A plaided stranger roam. 
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, 
And sunken cheek and heavy eye, 

Pine for his Highland home ; 
Then, warrior, then be thine to show 
The care that soothes a wanderer's woe ; 
Remember then thy hap erewhile, 
A stranger in the lonely isle. 

" Or if on life's uncertain main 

Mishap shall mar thy sail ; 
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, 
Woe, want, and exile thou sustain 

Beneath the fickle gale ; 
Waste not a sigh on fortune changed. 
On thankless courts, or friends estranged, 
But come where kindred worth shall smile, 
To greet thee in the lonely isle." 

IV. 

As died the sounds upon the tide, 
The shallop reach'd the mainland side, 
And ere his onward way he took. 
The stranger cast a lingering look, 
Where easily his eye might reach 
The Harper on the islet beach, 
Reclined against a blighted tree. 
As wasted, gray, and worn as he. 
To minstrel meditation given, 
His reverend brow was raised to heaven, 
As from the rising sun to claim 
A sparkle of inspiring flame. 
His hand, reclined upon the wire, 
Seem'd watchmg the awakening fire ; 
So still he sate, as those who wait 
Till judgment speak the doom of fate ; 
So still, as if no breeze might dare 
To lift one lock of hoary hair ; 
So still, as life itself were fled, 
la the last sound his harp had sped. 



Upon a rock v/ith lichens wild, 
Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. — 
Smiled she to see the stately drake 
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake. 
While her vex'd spaniel from the beach, 
Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach 1 
Yet tell me, tlien, the maid who know5y 
Why deepen'd on her cheek the rosei'— 
Forgive, forgive, Fidelity ! 
Perchance the maiden smiled to see 
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu. 
And stop and turn to wave anew ; 
And, lovely ladies, ere your ire 
Condemn the heroine of my lyre, 
Show me the fair would scorn to spy, 
And prize such conquest of her eye I 



While yet he loiter'd on the spot, 
It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not; 
But when he turn'd him to the glade, 
One courteous parting sign she made j 
And after oft the knight would say. 
That not when prize of festal day 
Was dealt him by the brightest fair 
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair, 
So highly did his bosom swell. 
As at that simple mute farewell. 
Now with a trusty mountain-guide, 
And his dark stag-hounds by his side, 
He parts — the maid, unconscious still, 
Watch'd him wind slowly round the hill ; 
But when his stately form was hid. 
The guardian in her bosom chid — 
" Thy Malcolm ! vain and selfish maid ! " 
'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said, — 
" Not so had Malcolm idly hung « 
On the smooth phrase of southern tongue-, 
Not so had Malcolm strain'd his eye, 
Another step than thine to spy. 
Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried, . 
To the old Minstrel by her side, — 
" Arouse thee from thy moody dream I 
I'll give thy harp heroic theme, 
And warm thee with a noble name ; 
Pour forth the glory of the Graeme ! " " 
Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd. 
When deep the conscious maiden blush'd ; 
For of his clan, in hall and bovver. 
Young Malcolm Graeme was held thi 
flower, 

VII. 

The Minstrel waked his harp — three time* 
Arose the well-known martial chimes, 
And thrice their high heroic pride 
In melancholy murmurs died. 



THE LAD Y OF THE LAKE 



119 



" Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid," 

Clasping his wither'd hands, he said, 

" Vainly tliou bid'st me wake the strain. 

Though all unvvont to bid in vain. 

Alas ! than mine a mightier hand 

Has tuned my harp, my strings hasspann'd ! 

I touch the chords of joy, but low 

And mournful answer notes of woe ; 

A.nd the proud march, which victors tread, 

Sinks in the wailing for the dead. 

O well for me, if mine alone 

That dirge's deep prophetic tone ! 

If, as my tuneful fathers said. 

This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd,^^ 

Can thus its master's fate foretell, 

Then welcome be the minstrel's knell 1 

VIII. 

** But ah ! dear lady, thus it sigh'd 

The eve thy sainted mother died ; 

And such the sounds which, while I strove 

To wake a lay of war or love, 

Came marring all the festal mirth, 

Appalling me who gave them birth, 

And, disobedient to my call, 

Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd 

hall. 
Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven," 
Were exiled from their native heaven,- 
Oh 1 if yet worse mishap and woe 
My master's house must undergo, 
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair 
Brood in these accents of despair. 
No future bard, sad Harp ! shall fling 
Triumph or rapture from thy string ; 
One short, one final strain shall flow, 
Fraught with unutterable woe. 
Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie, 
Thy master cast him down and die 1 " 



Soothing-^he answer'd him, " Assuage, 
Mine honor'd friend, the fears of age ; 
All melodies to thee are known, 
That harp has rung, or pipe has blown. 
In Lowland vale or Highland glen, 
From Tweed to Spey — what marvel, then, 
At times, unbidden notes should rise, 
Confusedly bound in memory's ties, 
Entangling, as they rusli along, 
The war-march v/ith the funeral song ? — 
Small ground is now for boding fear ; 
Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. 
My sire, in native virtue great. 
Resigning lordship, lands, and state, 
Not then to fortune more resign'd 
Than yonder oak might give the wind ; 



The graceful foliage storms may reave, 

The noble stem they cannot grieve. 

For me," — she stoop'd, and, looking round. 

Pluck'd a blue hare-bell from the ground,— 

" For me, whose memory scarce conveys 

An image of more splendid days, 

'Jliis little flower, that loves the lea, 

May well my simple emblem be ; 

It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose 

That in the King's own garden grows ; 

And when I place it m my hair, 

Allan, a bard is bound to swear * 

He ne'er saw coronet so fair.'' 

Then playfully the chaplet wild 

She wreath'd in her dark locks, and smiled 



Her smile, her speech, with winning sway, 
Wiled the old harper's mood away. 
With such a look as hermits throw, 
When'angels stoop to soothe their woe, 
He gazed, till fond regret and pride 
Thrill'd to a tear, then thus replied : 
" Loveliest and best ! thou little know'st 
The rank, the honors, thou hast lost 1 
O might 1 live to see thee grace, 
In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place, 
To see my favorite's step advance, 
The lightest in the courtly dance. 
The cause of every gallant's sigh. 
And leading star of every eye, 
And theme of every minstrel's art, 
The lady of the Bleeding Heart 1 " *— 



" Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried 
(Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd;) 
" Yet in this mossy rock to me 
Worth splendid chair arid canopy ; 
Nor would my footsteps spring more gay 
In courtly dance than blithe strathspey, 
Nor half so pleased mine ear incline 
To royal minstrel's lay as thine. 
And then for suitors proud and high, 
To bend 'oefore my conquering eye, — 
Thou, flattering bard ! thyself wilt say, 
That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway. 
The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride. 
The terror of Loch Lomond's side, 
Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay 
A Lennox foray — for a day." — 

XII. 

The ancient bard his glee repress'd : 
" III hast thou chosen theme for jest ! 



• The cognizance of tlie Douglas family. 



120 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



For who, through all this western wild, 

Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled 

In Holy-Rood a kuiglit he slcvv* ; ''* 

i saw, wlien back tlie dirk hs drew, 

Courtiers give place before the stride 

Of the undaunted homicide ; 

And since, though outlaw'd, hath his hand 

Full sternly kept his mountain land. 

Who else dared give — ah ! woe the day, 

That 1 such hated truth should say — 

The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 

Disown*ci by every noble peer,'^ 

Even the rude refuge we have here? 

Alas, this wild marauding Chief 

Alone might hazard our relief, 

And novt thy maiden charms expand, 

Looks for his guerdon in thy hand ; 

Full soon may dispensation sought, 

To back his suit, from Rome be brought 

Then, though an exile on the hill, , 

Thy father, as the Douglas, still 

Be held in reverence and fear ; 

And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear, 

That thou might'st guide with silken thread. 

Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread ; / 

Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain I / 

Thy hand is on a lion's mane." — V 



" Minstrel," the maid replied, and high 
Her father's soul glanced from her eye, 
" My debts to Roderick's house 1 know : 
All that a mother could bestow, 
To lady Margaret's care 1 owe, 
Since first an orphan in the wild 
She sorrow'd o'er her sister's child ; 
To her brave chieftain son, from ire 
Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire, 
'A deeper, holier debt is owed ; 
And, could I pay it with my blood, 
Allan ! Sir Roderick should command 
My blood," my life,- -but not my hand. 
Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell 
'A votaress in Maronnan's cell ; '^ 
I Rather through realms beyond the sea, 
Seeking the world's cold charity, 
Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word, 
And ne'er the name of Douglas heard, 
An outcast pilgrim will she rove, 
Than wed the man she cannot love. 



" Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses 
That pleading look, what can it say . 



But what 1 own ?~I grant him brave, 
But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave ;** 
And generous — save vindictive mood, 
Or jealous transport, chaf s his blood ; 
I grant him true to friendly band, 
As his claymore is to his hand ; 
But O ! that very blade of steel 
Mere mercy for a foe would feel : 
I grant him liberal, to fling 
Among his clan the wealth they bring, 
When back by lake and glen they wind. 
And in the Lowland kav?; behind. 
Where once some pleasant hamlet stood, 
A mass of ashes slaked with blood. 
The hand that for my father fought, 
I honor, as his daughter ought ; 
But can 1 clasp it reeking red 
From peasants slaughtcr'd in their shed ? 
No ! wildly while his virtues gleam, 
They make his passions darker seem, 
And flash along his spirit high, 
Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. 
While yet a child, — and children know, 
Instinctive taught, the friend and foe, — 
I shudder'd at his brow of gloom, 
■ His shadowy plaid, and sable plume ; 
! A maiden grown, I ill could bear 
{ His haughty mien and lordly air : 
j But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim, 
I In serious mood, to Roderick's namxs, 
I thrill v/ith anguish ! or, if e'er 
A Douglas, knew the word, with fear. 
To change such odious theme were best, — 
What think'st thou of our stranger gueet ? '*— 



" What think I of him ? — woe the while 
That brought such wanderer to cur isle I 
Thy father's battle-brand, of yore 
For Tine-man forged by fairy lore,'^ 
What time he leagued, no longer foes, 
His border spears with Hotspur's bows 
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow 
The footstep of a secret foe, '9 
If courtly spy hath harbor'd here, 
What may we for the Douglas fear t 
What for this island, deem'd of old 
Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold? 
If neither spy nor foe, I pray, 
What yet may jealous Roderick say ? 
— Nay, wave not thy disdainful head, 
Bethink thee of the discord dread 
That kindled, when at Beltane game 
Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm 
Graeme : 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE, 



121 



Still, though thy su-e the peace renew'd, 
Smoulders in Roderick's breast the fend ; 
Beware ! — But hark, what sounds are these ; 
My dull ears catch no faltering breeze, 
No weeping birch nor aspens wake, 
Noi breath is dimpling m the lake. 
Still is the canna's * hoary beard, 
Yet, by my minstrel faith, I lieard — 
And hark again ! some pipe of war 
j^ends the bold pibroch from afar." 



Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied 
^our darkening specks upon the tide. 
That, slow enlarging on the view. 
Four mann'd and masted barges grew, 
And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, 
Steer'd full upon the lonely isle ; 
The point of Brianchoil they pass'd. 
And, to the windward as they cast. 
Against the sun they gave to shine 
The bold Sir Roderick's banner'd Pine. 
Nearer and nearer as they bear, 
Spear, pikes, and axes flash in air. 
Now might you see the tartans brave, 
And plaids and plumage dance and wave : 
Now see the bonnets sink and rise, 
As his tough oar the rower plies ; 
See, flashing at each sturdy stroke, 
The wave ascending into smoke; 
See the proud pipers on the bow. 
And mark the gaudy streamers flew 
From their loud chanters f down, and sweep 
The furrow'd bosom of the deep, 
As, rushing through the lake amain. 
They plied the ancient Highland strain 



Ever, as on they bore, more loud 

And louder rung the pibroch proud. 

At first the sound, by distance tame, 

Mellow'd along the waters came, 

And, lingering long by cape and bay, 

Wail'd every harsher note away ; 

Then bursting bolder on the ear, 

The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear : 

Those thrilling sounds, that call the might 

Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.-^ 

Thick beat the rapid notes, as when 

The mustering hundreds shake the glen, 

And, hurr^'ing at the signal dread, 

The batter'd earth returns their tread. 

* Cotton grass. 
t The pipe of the bagpipe. 



Then prelude light, of livelier tone, 
Express'd their merry marching on, 
Ere peal of closing battle rose. 
With mingled oulcry, shrieks, and blows; 
And mimic din of stroke and ward, 
As broadsword upon target jarr'd ; 
And groaning pause, ere yet again, 
Condensed, the battle yell'd amain ; 
The rapid charge, the rallying shout, 
Retreat borne headlong into rout, 
And bursts of triumph, to declare 
Clan-Alpine's conquest — all were there 
Nor ended thus the strain ; but slow, 
Sunk in a moan prolong'd and low. 
And changed the conquermg clarion swell, 
For wild lament o'er those that fell. 



The war-pipes ceased ; but lake and hill 
Were busy with their echoes still ; 
And, when they slept, a vocal strain 
Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, 
While loud a hundred clansmen raise 
Their voices in tlieir Chieftain's praise. 
Each boatman, bending to his oar. 
With measured sweep the burden bore. 
In such wild cadence, as the breeze 
Makes through December's leafless trees. 
The chorus first could Allan know, 
" Roderick Vich Alpine, ho I iro ! '' 
And near, and nearer as they row'd, 
Distinct the martial ditty flow'd* 



BOAT SONG. 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! 
Honor'd and bless'd be the ever-green 
Pine! 
Long may the tree, in his banner that 
glances. 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line' 
Heaven send it happy dew. 
Earth lend it sap anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, 
While every Highland glen 
Sends our shout back agen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho 1 ieroe f "** 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
fountain. 
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; 
When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf 
on the mountain. 
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her 
shade. 



122 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Moor'd in the rifted rock, 

Proof to the tempest's shock, 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; 

Menteith and Breadalbane, then, 

Echo his praise agen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho I ieroe ! " 



Proudly our pibroch * has thrilPd in Glen 
Fruin, 
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan 1 
replied ; 
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking 
in ruin, 
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead 
on her side. 

Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid, 
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with 
woe; 

Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear agen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the High- 
lands ! 
Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green 
Pine! 
O ! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands. 
Were wreathed in a garland around him 
to twine ! 

O that some seedling gem, 
Worthy such noble stem, 
Honor'd andbless'din their shadow might 
grow ! 

Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
Ring from the deepmost glen, 
*'• Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " 

xxr. 

With all her joyful female band, 

Had Lady Margaret sought the strand, 

Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, 

And high their snowy arms they threw. 

As echoing back with shrill acclaim, 

And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name ; 

While, prompt to please, with mother's art. 

The darling passion of his heart. 

The Dame call'd Ellen to the strand, 

To greet her kinsman ere he land : 

" Come, loiterer, come ! a Douglas thou. 

And shun to wreathe a victor's brow ? " — 

Reluctantly and slow, the maid 

The unwelcome summoning obey'd, 

* Bagpipe air belonging to a clan. 
t Slog^an, a war-cry. 



And, when a distant bugle rung, 

In the mid-path aside she sprung . — 

" List, Allan-Bane ! From main',-\nd cast 

I hear my father's signal blast. 

Be ours," she cried, " the skiff to guide, 

And waft him from the mountain side " 

Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright^ 

She darted to her shallop light, 

And, eagerly while Roderick scann'd, 

For her dear form, his mother's band. 

The islet far behind her lay, 

And she had landed in the bay. 

XXII. 

Some feelings are to mortals given, 

With less of earth in them than heaven : 

And if there be a human tear 

From passion's dross refined and clear, 

A tear so limpid and so meek. 

It would not stain an angel's cheek, 

'Tis that which pious fathers shed 

Upon a duteous daughter's head f 

And as the Douglas to his breast 

His darling Ellen closely press'd. 

Such holy drops her tresses steep'd, 

Though 'twas a hero's eye that weep'd, 

Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue 

Her filial welcomes crowded hung, 

Mark'd she, that fear (affection's proof) 

Still held a graceful youth aloof ; 

No ! not till Douglas named his name, 

Although the youth was Malcolm Graame. 

XXIII. 

Allan, with wistful look the while, 

Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle ; 

His master piteously he eyed. 

Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride. 

Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away 

From his dimm'd eye the gathering spray: 

And Douglas, as his hand he laid 

On Malcolm's slioulder, kindly said, 

" Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy 

In my poor follower's glistening eye ? 

I'll tell thee : — he recalls the day, 

When in my praise he led the lay 

O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell pi'oud, 

Wliile many a minstrel answer'd loud, 

When Percy's Norman pennon, won 

In bloody field, before me shone, 

And twice ten knights, the least a name 

As mighty as yon Chief may claim, 

Gracing my pomp, behind me came. 

Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud 

Was I of all that marshall'd crowd, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



123 



Though the waned crescent own'd my 

might, 
And in niy train troop'd lord and knight, 
Though Blantyre hymn'd her holiest lays. 
And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise, 
As when this old man's silent tear, 
And this poor maid's affection dear, 
A welcome give more kind and true, 
Than aught my better fortunes knew. 
Forgive, my friend, a father's boast, 
O ! it out-beggars all I lost 1 " 

XXIV. 

Delightful praise ! — Like summer rose. 
That brighter in the dew-drop glows, 
The bashful maiden's cheek appear'd, 
For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. 
The flush of shame-faced joy to hide. 
The hounds, the havv^k, her cares divide ; 
The loved caresses of the maid 
The dogs with crouch and whimper paid • 
And, at her whistle, on her hand 
The falcon took her favorite stand. 
Closed his dark wing, relax'd his eye, 
Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly. 
And, trust, while in such guise she stood, 
Like fabled Goddess of the wood, 
That if a father's partial thought 
O'erweigh'd her worth and beauty aught, 
Well might the lover's judgment fail 
To balance with a juster scale ; 
For with each secret glance he stole, 
The fond enthusiast sent his soul. 

XXV. 

Of stature tall, and slender frame, 
But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme. 
The belted plaid and tartan hose 
Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose ; 
His flaxen hair of sunny hue, 
Curl'd closely round his bonnet blue. 
Train'd to the chase, his eagle eye 
The ptarmigan in snow could spy : 
Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, 
He knew, through Lennox and Menteith • 
Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe. 
When Malcolm bent his sounding bow, 
And scarce that doe, though wing'd with 

fear, 
Outstripp'd in speed the mountaineer : 
Right up Ben-Lomond could he press, 
And not a sob his toil confess. 
His form accorded with a mind 
Lively and ardent, frank and kind ; 
A blither heart, till Ellen came, 
Did never love nor sorrow tame ; 
It danced as lightsome in his breast. 



As play'd the feather on his crest. 
Yet friends who nearest knew the youth, 
His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth. 
And bards, who saw his features bold, 
When kindled by the tales of old. 
Said, were that youth to manhood grown, 
Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown 
Be foremost voiced by mountain fame, 
But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme. 

XXVI. 

Now back they wend their watery way. 
And, " O my sire ! " did Ellen say, 
" Why urge thy chase so far astray ? 
And why so late return'd? And why—" 
The rest was in her sparkling eye. 
" My child, the chase I follow far, 
'Tis mimicry of noble war ; 
And with that gallant pastime reft, 
Were all of Douglas I have left, 
I met young Malcolm as I stray'd 
Far eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade. 
Nor stray'd I safe : for, all around. 
Hunters and horsemen scour'd the ground. 
This youth, though still a royal ward, 
Risk'cl life and land to be my guard. 
And through the passes of the wood, 
Guided my steps not unpursued ; 
And Roderick shall his welcome make. 
Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake. 
Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen, 
Nor peril aught for me agen." 

XXVII, 

Sir Roderick, who to meet them came, 
Redden'd at sight of Malcolm Graeme, 
Yet, not in action, word, or eye, 
Fail'd aught in hospitality. 
In talk and sport they wiled away 
The morning of that summer day ; 
But at high noon a courier light 
Held secret parley with the knight. 
Whose moody aspect soon declared, 
That evil were the news he heard. 
Deep thought seem'd toiling in his head | 
Yet was the evening banquet made. 
Ere he assembled round the flame. 
His mother, Douglas, and the Graeme, 
And Ellen, too ; then cast around 
His eyes, then fix'd them on the ground. 
As studying phrase that might avail 
Best to convey unpleasant tale. 
Long with his dagger's hilt he play'd. 
Then raised his haughty brow and said :- 

XXVIII. * 

" Short be my speech ; — nor tune affords 
Nor my plain temper, glozing words. 



124 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Kinsman and father, — if such name 
Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's claim ; 
Mine honored mother; — Ellen— why, 
My cousin, turn away thine eye ? — • 
And Graeme ; in whom 1 hope to know 
Full soon a noble friend or foe. 
When age shall give thee thy command, 
And leading in thy native land, — 
.List all ! — The King's vindictive pride 
JBoasts to have tamed the Border-side, 
(where chiefs, with hound and hawk who 

came 
To share their monarch's sylvan game. 
Themselves in bloody toils were snared ; 
And when the banquet they prepared, 
And wide their loyal portals flung, 
O'er their own gateway struggling hung. 
Loud cries their blood from Meggat's mead. 
From Yarrow braes, and banks of Tweed, 
Where the ione streams of Ettrick glide. 
And from the silver Teviot's side ; 
The dales, where martial clans did ride. 
Are now one sheep-walk, waste and wide. 
This tyrant of the Scottish throne. 
So faithless and so ruthless known, 
Now hither comes ; his end the same. 
The same pretext of sylvan game. 
What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge ye 
By fats cf Border chivalry. 
Yet mere ; amid Glenfinlas green, 
Douglas, thy stately form v/as seen. 
This by espial sure I know ; 
Vour counsel in the streight I show." 

XXIX. 

Ellen and Margaret fearfully 

Sought comfort in each other's eye, 

Then turn'd their ghastly look, each one, 

This to her sire — that to her son. 

The lia.sty cclcr went and came 

In tlie bold cheek of Malcolm Graeme ; 

But from his glance it well appear'd, 

'Twas but for Ellen that he fear'd ; 

Willie sorrowful, but undismay'd, 

The Douglas thus his counsel said: — 

" Bravj Roderick, though the tempest roar, 

It may but thunder and pass o'er ; 

Nor will I here remain an hour, 

To draw the lightning on thy bower : 

For well thou know'st, at this gray head 

The royal bolt were fiercest sped. 

For thee, who, at thy King's command, 

Canst aid him with a gallant band, 

Submission, hcmaee, humbled pride. 

Shall turn thi Moiiarch's wrath aside. 

Poor remnants of t!ie Bleeding Heart, 

Ellen and 1 vnW seek, apart. 



The refuge of some forest cell, 
There, like the hunted quarry, dwell, 
Till on the mountain and the moor, 
The stern pursuit be pass'd and o'er." 

XXX. 

" No, by mine honor," Roderick said, 

" So help me, heaven, and my good blade • 

No, never I Blasted be yon Pine, 

My fathers' ancient crest and mine, 

If from its shade in danger part 

The lineage of the Bleeding Heart! 

Hear my blunt speech : Grant me this maid 

To wife, thy counsel to mine aid ; 

To Douglas, leagued with Roderick Dhu 

Will friends and allies flock enow ; 

Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief, 

Will bind to us each Western Chief. 

When the loud pipes my bridal tell, 

The Links of Forth shall hear the knell, 

The guards shall start in Stirling's perch ; 

And, when I light the nuptial torch, 

A thousand villages in flames, 

Shall scare the slumbers cf King James 1 

— Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away, 

And, mother, cease these signs I pray ; 

I meant not all my heart might say. — 

Small need of inroad, or of fight, 

When the sage Douglas may unite 

Each mountain clan in friendly band. 

To guard the passes of their land. 

Till the foil'd king, from pathless glen. 

Shall bootless turn him home agen." 

XXXI. 

There are who have, at midnight hour, 

In slumber scaled a dizzy tower, 

And, on the verge that beetled o'er 

The ocean-tide's incessant roar, 

Dream'd calmly out their dangerous dream. 

Till waken'd by the morning beam ; 

When, dazzled by the eastern glow, 

Such startler cast his glance below, 

And saw unmeasured depth around, 

And heard unintermitted sound, 

And thought the battled fence so frail, 

It waved like cobweb in the gale ; 

Amid his senses' giddy wheel, 

Did he not desperate impulse feel, 

Headlong to plunge himself below. 

And meet the worst his fears foreshow ?-• 

Thus, Ellen, dizzy and astound. 

As sudden ruin yawn'd around, 

By crossing terrors wildly toss'd. 

Still for the Douglas fearing most, 

Could scarce the desperate thought wittv 

stand 
To buy his safety with her hand. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



XXXII. 

Such purpose dread could Malcolm spy 

In Ellen's quivering lip and eye, 

And eager rose to speak — but ere 

His tongue could hurry forth his fear, 

Had Douglas mark'd the hectic strife, 

Where death seem'd combatting with life ; 

For to her cheek, in feverish flood, 

One instant rush'd the throbbing blood, 

Then ebbing back, with sudden sway, 

Left its domain as wan as clay. 

** Roderick, enough ! enough ! " he cried, 

'' My daughter cannot be thy bride ; 

Not that the blush to wooer dear, 

Nor paleness that of maiden fear. 

It may not be — forgive her. Chief, 

Nor hazard aught for our relief. 

Agamst his sovereign, Douglas ne'er 

Will level a rebellious spear. 

'Twas I that taught his youthful hand 

To rem a steed and wield a brand ; 

I see him yet, the princely boy ! 

Not Ellen more my pride and joy ; 

I love him still, despite my wrongs, 

By hasty wratli, and slanderous tongues. 

O seek the grace you well may find, 

Without a cause to mine combined." 



Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode 
The waving of his tartans broad, 
j\nd darken'd brow, where wounded pride 
With ire and disappointment vied, 
Seem'd, by the torch's gloomy light, 
Like the ill Demon of the night, 
Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway 
Upon the nighted pilgrim's way: 
But, unrequited Love ! thy dart 
Plunged deepest its envenom'd smart. 
And Roderick, with thine anguish stung, 
At length the hand of Douglas wrung, 
While eyes, that mock'd at tears before, 
With bitter drops were running o'er. 
The death-pangs of long-cherish'd hope 
Scarce in that ample breast had scope, 
But, struggling with his spirit proud. 
Convulsive heaved its ch^cker'd shroud, 
While every sob — so mute were all — 
Was heard distinctly through the hall. 
The son's despair, the mother's look, 
111 might the gentle Ellen brook ; 
She rose, and to her side there came, 
To aid her parting steps, the Graeme 

XXXIV. 

Then Roderick from the Douglas broke — 
As flashes flame through sable smoke, 



Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low, 

To one broad blaze of ruddy glow, 

So the deep anguish of despair 

Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air. 

With stalwart grasp his hand he laid 

On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid : 

" Back, beardless boy ! '' he sternly said, 

" Back, minion ! hold'st thou thus at naught. 

The lesson I so lately taught ? 

This roof, the Douglas, and that maid. 

Thank thou for punishment delay'd.'' 

Eager as greyhound on his game, 

Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme. 

•' Perish my name, if aught afford 

Its Chieftain safety save his sword ! " 

Thus, as they strove, their desperate hand 

Griped to the dagger or the brand. 

And death had been — but Douglas rose, 

And thrust between the struggling foes 

His giant strength : — " Chieftains, forego ! 

I hold the first who strikes, my foe. — 

Madmen, forbear your frantic jar ! 

What! is the Douglas fall'n so far, 

His daughter's hand is doom'd the spoil 

Of such dishonorable broil ! " 

Sullen and slowly they unclasp, 

As struck with shame, their desperate 

grasp. 
And each upon his rival glared, 
With foot advanced, and blade half bared. 

XXXV. 

Ere yet the brands aloft v.^cre flung, 
Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung, 
And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream, 
As falter'd through terrific dream. 
Then Roderick plunged in slieath his sword, 
And veil'd his wrath in scciniful word. 
" Rest safe till morning : pity 'twere 
Such cheek should feel the midnight air ! 
Then mayest thou to fames Stuart tell, 
Roderick will keep the lake and fell, 
Nor lackey, with his freeborn clan. 
The pageant pomp of earthly man. 
More would he of ClanAlpine know, 
Thou canst our strength and passes show,— 
Malise, what ho ! " — his henchman came ; •■ 
" Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme." 
Young Malcolm answer'd, calm and bold, 
" Fear nothing for thy favorite hold ; 
Tlie spot an angel deign'd to grace 
Is bless'd, though robbers haunt the place. 



* A henchman was the confidential attendant 
or gilly of a chief. His standing behind his 
lord at festivals originated the name of haunch* 
man or henchman. 



126 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thy churlish courtesy for those 
Reserve, who fear to be thy foes. 
As safe to me the mountain way 
At midnight as in blaze of day, 
Though with his boldest at his back 
Even Roderick Dhu beset the track.- 
Brave Douglas, — lovely Ellen, — nay, 
Nought here of parting will I say. 
Earth does not hold a lonesome glen, 
So secret, but we meet agen. — 
Chieftain ! we too shall find an hour." 
He said, and left the sylvan bower. 

XXXVI. 

Old Allan follow'd to the strand, 
(Such was the Douglas's command,) 
And anxious told, how, on the morn, 
The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn, 
The Fiery Cross should circle o'er 
Dale, glen, and valley, down, and moor. 
Much were the peril to the Graeme, 
From those who to the signal came ; 
Far up the lake 'twere safest land. 
Himself would row liim to the strand. 
He gave his counsel to the wind, 
"While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind, 
Round dirk and pouch and broadsword 

roll'd, 
His ample plaid in tighten'd fold, 
And stripp'd his limbs to such array, 
As best might suit the watery way, — 

XXXVII. 

Then spoke abrupt : " Farewell to thee, 
Pattern of old fidelity ! " 
The Minstrel's hand he kindly press'd, — 
" O ! could I point a place of rest ! 
My sovereign holds in ward my land. 
My uncle leads my vassal band ; 
To tame his foes, his friends to aid, 
Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade, 
Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme, . 
Who loves the Chieftain of his name. 
Not long shall lionor'd Douglas dwell. 
Like hunted stag in moimtain cell ; 
Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber dare-» 
I may not give tlie rest to air ! 
Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed him nought, 
Not the poor service of a boat, 
To waft me to yon muuntain-side." 
Tlien plunged he in the flashing tide. 
Bold o'er the flood his head he bore. 
And stoutly steer'd him from the shore ; 
And Allan stfcin'd his anxious eye, 
Far 'mid the lake his form to spy. 
Darkening across each puny wave 
To which the moon her silver gave, 



Fast as the cormorant could skim, 
The swimmer plied each active limb ; 
Then landing in the moonlight dell, 
Loud shouted of his weal to tell. 
The Minstrel heard the far halloo, 
And joyful from the shore withdrew. 



CANTO THIRD. 

TH E GATHERING 



Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race 
of yore, 
Who danced our infancy upon their 
knee, 
And told our marvelling boyhood legends 
store. 
Of their strange ventures happ'd by land 
or sea, 
How are tJiey blotted from the things that 
be! 
How few, all weak, and wither'd of their 
force, 
Wait on the verge of dark eternity, 

Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning 
hoarse. 
To sweep them from our sight 1 Time 

rolls his ceaseless course. 
Yet live there still who can remember well. 
How, when a mountain chief his bugle 
blew. 
Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell, 

And solitary heath, the signal knew ; 
And fast the faithful clan around him drew, 
What time the warning note was keenly 
wound, 
What time aloft their kindred banner flew, 
While clamorous war-pipes yell'd the 
gathering sound, 
And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a 
meteor round.^^ 



The Summer dawn's reflected hue 
To purple changed Loch Katrine blue ; 
Mildly and soft the western breeze 
Just kiss'd the lake. Just stirr'd the trees, 
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy. 
Trembled but dimpled not for joy ; 
The mountain-shadows on her breast 
Were neither broken nor at rest ; 
In bright uncertainty they lie. 
Like future joys, to Fancy's eye. 
The water-lily to the light 
Her chalice rear'd of silver bright ;; 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



127 



The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 

Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her fawn ; 

The gray mist left the mountain-side, 

The torrent show'd its glistening pride ; 

Invisible in flecked sky, 

The lark sent down her revelry ; 

The blackbird and the speckled thrush 

Good-morrow save from brake and bush ; 

In answer coo'd the cushat dove 

Her notes of peace, and rest, and love. 



No thought of peace, no thought of rest. 
Assuaged the storm in Roderick' 3 breast. 
With sheathed broadsword in his hand, 
Abrupt he paced the islet strand, 
And eyed the rising sun, and laid 
His hand on his impatient blade. 
Beneath a rock, his vassals' care 
Was prompt the ritual to prepart. 
With deep and deathful meaning fraught ; 
For such Antiquity had taught 
Was preface meet, ere yet abroad 
The Cross of Fire should take its road. 
The shrinking band stood oft aghast 
At the impatient glance he cast ; — 
Such glance the mountain eagle threw, 
As from the cliffs of Benvenue, 
She spread her dark sails on the wind. 
And, high in middle heaven, reclined, 
With her broad shadow on the lake, 
Silenced the warblers of the brake. 



A heap of wither'd boughs was piled, 
Of juniper and rowan wild, 
Mingled wich shivers from the oak. 
Rent by the lightning's recent stroke 
Brian, the Hermit, by it stood. 
Barefooted, in his frock and hood. 
His grisled beard and matted hair 
Obscured a visage of despair ; 
His naked arms and legs, seam'd o'er, 
The scars of frantic penance bore. 
That monk, of savage form and face,^' 
■That unpending danger of his i-ace 
iHad drawn from deepest solitude, 
,Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. 
Not his the mien of Christian priest, 
But Druid's, from the grave released, 
Whose harden' d heart and eye might brook 
On human sacrifice to look ; 
And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore 
Mix'd in the charms he mutter'd o'er. 
The hallow"d creed gave only worse 
And deadlier emphasis of curse ; 
No peasant sought that Hermit's nrayer, 



His cave the pilgrim shunn'd with care, 

The eager huntsman knew his bound, 

And in mid chase call'd off his hound ; 

Or if, in lonely glen or strath, 

The desert-dweller met his path. 

He pray'd, and sign'd the cross between. 

While terror took devotion's mien. 



Of Brian's birth strange tales were told : 2* 
His mother watch'd a midnight fold, 
Built deep within a dreary glen. 
Where scatter'd lay the bones of men. 
In some forgotten battle slain, 
And bleach'd by drifting wind and rain. 
It might have tamed a warrior's heart. 
To view such mockery of his art ! 
The knot-grass fetter'd there the hand, 
Which once could burst an iron band ; 
Beneath the broad and ample bone. 
That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, 
A feeble and a timorous guest, 
The field-fare framed her lowly nest. 
There the slow blind-worm left his slime, 
On the fleet limbs that mock'd at time ; 
And there, too, lay the leader's skull, 
Still wreathed with chaplet, Hush'd and full, 
For heath-bell with her purple bloom 
Supplied the bonnet and the plume. 
All night, in this sad glen, the maid 
Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade : 
— She said, no shepherd sought her side, 
No hunter's hand her snood untied, 
Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 
The virgin snood did Alice wear ; -^ 
Gone was her maiden glee and sport. 
Her maicien girdle all too short. 
Nor sought she, from that fatal night, 
Or holy church or blessed rite. 
But lock'd her secret in her breast, 
And died in travail, unconfess'd. 



Alone, among his young compeers, 
Was Brian from his infant years ; 
A moody and heart-broken boy, 
Estranged from sympathy and joy. 
Bearing each taunt which careless tongue 
On his mysterious lineage flung. 
Whole nights he spent by moonlight palo 
To wood and stream his hap to wail, 
Till, frantic, he as truth received 
What of his birth the crowd believed, 
And sought, in mist and meteor fire. 
To meet and know his PhanAm Sire I 
In vain, to soothe his wayward fate, 
The cloister oiDed her oitying gate • 



128 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In vain, the learning of the age 

Unclasp'd the ?able-letter'd page ; 

Even in its treasures he could find 

Food for the fever of his mind. 

Eager he read v^rhatever tells 

Of magic, cabala, and spells. 

And every dark pursuit allied 

To curious and presumptuous pride ; 

Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung, 

And heart with mystic horrors wrung, 

Desperate he sought Benharrow's den, 

And hid him from the haunts of men. 

VII. 

The desert gave him visions wild, 

Such as might suit the spectre's child. 

Where with black cliffs the torrents toil, 

He watch'd the wheehng eddies boil, 

Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes 

Beheld the River Demon rise ; 

The mountain mist took form and limb, 

Of noontide hag, or goblin grim ; 

The midnight wind came wild and dread, 

Swell'd with the voices of the dead ; 

Far on the future battle-heath 

His eye beheld the ranks of death : 

Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurl'd, 

Shaped forth a disembbdied world. 

One lingering sympathy of mind 

Still bound him to the mortal kind ; 

The only parent he could claim 

Of ancient Alpine's lineage came. 

Late had he heard, in prophet's dream, 

The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream ; -^ 

Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast, 

Of charging steeds, careering fast 

Along Benharrow's shingly side, 

Where mortal horsemen ne'er might ride ; ^^ 

The thunderbolt had split the pine, — 

All augur'd ill to Alpine's line. 

He girt his loins, and came to show 

The signals of impending woe, 

And now stood prompt to bless or ban, 

As bade the Chieftain of his clan. 

VIII. 

'Twas all prepared : — and from the rock, 
A goat, the patriarch of the flock. 
Before the kindling pile was laid. 
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade, 
fatient the sickening victim eyed 
The life-blood ebb in crimson tide, 
Down his clogg'd beard and shaggy limb, 
Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. 
The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, 
A slender crc^slet form'd with care, 
A cubit's length in measure due ; 
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, 



Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave 
Their shadows o'er Clan- Alpine's grave, 
And, answering Lomond's breezes deef\ 
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. 
The Cross, thus form'd, he held on high, 
With wasted hand, and haggard e_ve, 
And strange and mingled feelings woke, 
While his anathema he spoke. 



" Woe to the clansman, who shall view 
This symbol of sepulchral yew, 
Forgetful that its branches grew 
Where weep the heavens their holiest deWj 

On Alpine's dwelling low ! 
Deserter of his Chieftain's trust, 
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust, 
But, from his sires and kindred t'nrust, 
Each clansman's execration just 

Shall doom him wrath and woe ! '* 
He paused ; — the word the vassals took, 
With forward step and fiery look, 
On high their naked brands they shook, 
Their clattering targets wildly strook ; 

And first in murmur low, 
Then, like the billow in his course, 
That far to seaward finds his source, 
And flings to shore his muster'd force, 
Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse, 

" Woe to the traitor, woe ! " 
Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, 
The joyous wolf from covert drew, 
The exulting eagle scream'd afar, — • 
They knew the voice of Alpine's war 



The shout was hush'd on lake and fell, 
The monk resumed his mutter'd spell : 
Dismal and low its accents came. 
The while he scathed the Cross with flame j 
And the few words that reach'd tlie air. 
Although the holiest name was there, 
Had more of blasphemy than prayer. 
But wlien he shook above the crowd 
Its kindled points, he spoke aloud : — 
" Woe to the wretch who fails to rear 
At this dread sign the ready spear!. 
For, as the flames this symbol sear, 
His home, the refuge of his fear, 

A kindred fate sliall know ; 
Far o'er its roof the volumed flame 
Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, 
While maids and matrons on his name 
Shall call down wretchedness and shame, 

And infamy and woe." 
Then rose tlie cry of females shrill 
As goss-hawk's whistle on the hill, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



Denouncing misery and ill, 

Mingled with childhood's babbling trill 

Of curses stammer' d slow ; 
Answering, with imprecation dread, 
" Sunk be his home in embers red ! 
And cursed be the meanest shed 
That e'er shall hide the houseless head, 

We doom to want and woe ! " 
A sharp and shrieking echo gave, 
Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave I 
And the gray pass where birches wave, 

On Beala-nam-bo. 

XI. 

Then deeper paused the priest anev, 
And hard his laboring breath he drew. 
While, with set teeth and clenched hand, 
And eyes that glow'd like fiery brand, 
He meditated curse more dread, 
And deadlier, on the clansman's head, 
Who, summon'd to his Chieftain's aid, 
The signal saw and disobey' d. 
The crosslet's points of sparkling wood, 
He quench'd among the bubbling blood, 
And, as again the sign he rear'd, 
'Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard 
*' When flits this Cross from man to man, 
Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan, 
Burst be the ear that fails to heed ! 
Palsied the foot that shuns to speed 1 
May ravens tear the careless eyes, 
Wolves make the coward heart their prize ! 
As sinks that blood-stream in the earth, 
So may his heart' s-blood drench his hearth ! 
As dies in hissing gore the sparK, 
Quench thou his light. Destruction dark, 
And be the grace to him denied, 
Bought by this sign t ) all beside 1 " 
He ceased ; no echo gave agen 
The murmur of the deep Ainen 

xir. 
Then Roderick, with impatient look, 
From Brian's hand the symbol took : 
*' Speed, Malise, speed! " he said, and gave 
The crosslet to his henchman brave. 
•' The muster-place be Lanrick mead — 
Instant the time— speed, Malise, speed ! " 
Like heath bird when the hawks pursue, 
A barge across Loch Katrine flew ; 
High stood the henchman en the prow ; 
So rapidly the barge-men row. 
The bubbles, where they launch'd the boat. 
Were all unbroken and afloat. 
Dancing in foam and ripple still, 
When it had near'd the mainland hill \ 
And from the silver beach's side 
Still was the prow three fathom v/ide, 



When lightly bounded to the land 
The messenger of blood and brand 



Speed, Malise, speed 1 the dun deer's hidd 
On fleeter foot was never tied.^^ 
Speed, Malise, speed ! such cause of haste 
Thine active sinews never braced. 
Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, 
Burst down like torrent from its crest ; 
With short and springing footstep pass 
The trembling bog and false morass ; 
Across the brook like roebuck bound. 
And thread the brake like questing hound j 
The crag is high, the scaur is deep. 
Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: 
Parch'd are thy burning lips and brow. 
Yet by the fountain pause not now ; 
Herald of battle, f?te, and feai; 
Stretch onward in thy fleet career ! 
The wounded hind thou Irack'st not now, 
Pursuest net maid through greenwood bough 
Ncr pliest thou now thy flying pace. 
With rivals in the mountain race ; 
But danger, death, and warrior deed, 
Are in thy course — speed, Malise, speed! 

XIV. 

Fast as the fatal symbol flies, 
In arms the huts and hamlets rise ; 
From winding glen, trcm upiand bio^'ft 
They pour'd each hardy' tenant down 
Nor slack'd the messenger his pace , 
He show'd the sign, he named the place. 
And, pressing forward lik- the wind. 
Left clamor and surpr.se behind. 
The fisherman forsook th; strand. 
The swarthy smith took dirk and brand . 
With changed cheer, th? m^^wei blithe 
Left in the half-cut swath- ihe scythe ;- 
The herds without a keeper stray'd, 
The plough was in mid furuw staid. 
The falc'ner toss'd his hawk away, 
The hunter left the stag at bay . 
Prompt at the signal of alarms, 
Each son of Alpine rush'd to arms \ 
So swept the tumult and affray 
Along the margin of Achray. 
Alas ! thou lovely lake ! that e'er 
Thy banks should echo souads of fear I 
The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep 
So stilly on thy bosom deep. 
The lark's blithe carol, from the cloud. 
Seems for the scene too gaylv loud. 

XV, 

Speed, Malise, speed ! the lake is past( 
Duncraggan's huts appear at iast^ 



l.^O 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen, 
Half hidden in the copse so green , 
There may'st thou rest, thy labor done. 
Their Lord shall speed the signal on. — 
As stoops the hawk upon his prey. 
The henchman shot him down the way. 
— What woeful accents load the gale ? j 

The funeral yell, the female wail ! ! 

A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, i 

A valiant warrior fights no more. I 

Who, in the battle or the chase, j 

At Roderick's side shall fill his place!— 
Within the hall, where torches' ray 
Supplies the excluded beams cf day, 
Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, 
And o'er him streams his widow's tea 
His stripling son stands mournful by. 
His youngest weeps, but knows not why ; 
The village maids and matrons round . 
The dismal coronach resound.^? 



CORONACH. 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He IS lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain. 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font, reappearing, 

From the rain-drcps shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrc w ! 
The hand cf the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary, 
B''t the voxe of the weeper 
Vails manhood in glury. 
Ti.e autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our fl wer was in flushing. 

When blighting was nearest. 
Fleet foot en the ccrrei,* 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam < n the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain. 

Thou art gone, and forever ! 



See Stumahjt who, the bier beside. 
His master's corpse with wonder eyed, 



* Correi. the hollow side cf the V\\ where 
game ua.ually lies. 

t The name of a dog. The word is CeHic for 
"iaithful.'* 



Poor Stumah ! whom his last halloo 

Could send like lightning o'er the dew, 

Bristles his crest, and points his ears, 

As if some stranger step he hears. 

'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread. 

Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, 

But headlong haste, or deadly fear, 

Urge the precipitate career. 

All stand aghast : — unheeding all, 

The henchman bursts into the hall ; 

Before the dead man's bier he stood ; 

Held forth the Cross besmear'd with blood j 

" The muster-place is Lanrick mead ; 

Speed forth the signal ! clansmen, speed ! " 



Angus, the heir of Duncan's line. 

Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. 

In haste the stripling to his side 

His father's dirk and broadsword tied ; 

But when he saw his mother's eye 

Watch him in speechless agony, 

Back to her cpen'd arms he flew, 

Press'd on her lips a fond adieu — 

" Alas ! '' she sobb'd, — " and yet, be gone, 

And speed thee fcrth, like Duncan's sen ! '* 

One look he cast upon the bier, 

Dash'd from his eye the gathering tear, 

Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast, 

And toss'd aloft his bonnet crest. 

Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed, 

First he essays his fire and speed, 

He vanish'd, and o'er moor and moss 

Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. 

Suspended was the widow's tear, 

While yet his footsteps she could hear ; 

And when she mark'd the henchman's eye 

Wet with unwonted sympathy, 

" Kinsman," she said, " his race is run, 

That should have sped thine errand on. 

The oak has fall'n, — the sapling bough 

Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. 

Yet trust 1 well, his duty done, 

The orphan's God will guard my son.- 

And you, in many a danger true. 

At Duncan's best your blades that drew. 

To arms, and guard that orphan's head! 

Let babes and women wail the dead." 

Then weapon-clang, and martial call. 

Resounded through the funeral hall. 

While from the walls the attendant band 

Snatch'd sword and targe, with hurried 

hand ; 
And short and flitting energy 
Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, 
As if the sounds to warrior dear, 
JNIight rouse her Duncan from his bier. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



131 



But faded soon that borrow'd force, 
Grief claim'd his right, and tears their 
course. 

XIX. 

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire, 

It glanced Hke lightning up Strath-Ire. 
O'or dale and hill the summons flew, 
Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew ; 
The tear that gather'd in his eye 
He left the mountain breeze to dry ; 
Until, where Teith's young waters roll, 
Betwixt him and a wooded knoll, 
That graced the sable strath with green, 
The chapel of St. Bride was seen, 
Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, 
But Angus paused not on the edge ; 
Though the dark waves danced dizzily, 
Though reel'd his sympathetic eye, 
He dash'd amid the torrent's roar ; 
His right hand high the crosslet bore, 
His left the pole-axe grasp'd, to guide 
And stay his footing in the tide. 
He stumbled twice — the foam splash'd high. 
With hoarser swell the stream raced by ; 
And had he fall'n, — forever there, 
Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir 1 
But still, as if in parting life. 
Firmer he grasp'd the Cross of strife, 
Until the opposing bank he gain'd, 
And up the chapel pathway strain'd. 

XX. 

A blithesome rout, that morning tide, 
Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. 
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 
To Norman, beir of Armandave, 
And, issuing from the Gothic arch. 
The bridal now resumed their march. 
In rude, but glad procession, came 
Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; 
And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, 
Which snooded maiden would not hear ; 
And children, that, unwitting why, 
Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry ; 
And minstrels, that in measures vied 
Before the young and bonny bride, 
Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose 
The tear and blush of morning rose. 
With virgin step, and bashful hand, 
She held the 'kerchief's snowy band; 
The gallant bridegroom by her side. 
Beheld his prize with victor's pride, 
-■^nd the glad mother in her ear 
Was closely whispering word of cheer. 
XXI. 

Who n>eets them at the churchyard gate ? 
The messenger of fear and fate 1 
Haste in his hurried accent lies, 



And grief is swimming in liis eyes. 

All dripping from the recent flood, 

Panting and travel-soil'd he stood. 

The fatal sign of fire and sword 

Held forth, and spoke the appointed word : 

" The muster-place is Lanrick mead ; 

Speed forth the signal ! Norman, speed ! '' 

And must he change so soon the hand. 

Just link'd to his by holy band, 

For the fell Cross of blood and 'urand.? 

And must the day, so blithe that rose, 

And promised rapture in the close, 

Before its setting hour, divide 

The bridegroom from the pliglited bride I 

fatal doom ! — it must ! it must ! 

Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, 

Her summons dread, brook no delay; 

Stretch to the race — away ! awayl 

XXII. 

Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, 

And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride, 

Until he saw the starting tear 

Speak woe he might not stop to cheer ; 

Then, trusting not a second look. 

In haste he sped him up the brook, 

Nor backward glanced, till on the heath 

Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. 

— What in the racer's bosom stirr'd ? 

The sickening pang of hope deferr'd. 

And memory, with a torturing train 

Of all his morning visions vain. 

Mingled with love's impatience, came 

The manly thirst for martial fame ; 

The stormy joy of mountaineers, 

Ere yet they rush upon the spears ; 

And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning, 

And hope, from well-fought field returning. 

With war's red honors on his crest, 

To clasp his Mary to his breast. 

Stung by such Uioughts, o'er bank and brae. 

Like fire from flint he glanced av/ay, 

While high resolve, and feeling strong, 

Burst into voluntary song. 

XXIII. 

SONG. 

The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken * curtain for my head, 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
My couch may be my bloody plaid. 
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! 

It will not waken me, Mary 1 



• Fera. 



yi« 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow- 

I dare not think upon thy vow, 

And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know ; 
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 
His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary. 

A time will come with feelmg fraught, 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
And if return'd from conquer'd foes. 
How blithely will the evening close, 
How sweet the linnet sing repose, 

To my young bride and me, Mary I 

TCXIV. 

Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze,3o 
Rushmg, in conflagration strong, 
Thy deep ravines and dells along, 
Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, 
And reddening the dark lakes below ; 
Nor faster speeds it, nor so far, 
As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. 
The signal roused to martial ceil 
The sullen margin of Loch Veil, 
Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source 
Alarm'd, Balvaig, thy swampy course ; 
Thence southward turn'd its rapid road 
Adown Strath-Gar tney's valley broad, 
Till rose in arms each man might claim 
A portion in Clan- Alpine's name, 
From the gray sire, whose trembling hand 
Could hardly buckle on his brand, 
To thj raw boy, whose shaft and bow 
Were yet scarce terror to the cr w. 
Each valley, each sequester'd glen, 
Muster d its little he rde of men. 
That met a5 torrents frcm the height 
In Highland dales their streams unite, 
Still gathering, as they pour along, 
A voice more loud, a tide more strong, 
Till at the rendezvous thSy stood 
By hundreds prompt for blows and blood ; 
Each train'd to arms since life began, 
Owning no tie but to his clan. 
No oath, but by his chieftam's hand, 
No law, but Roderick Dhj's command. 



That summer morn had Roderick Dhu 
Survey'd the skirts of Benvenuc, 
And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath, 
To view the frontiers of Menteith. 



All backward came with news of truce ; 
Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce, 
In Rednoch courts no horsemen wait, 
No banner waved on Cardross gate, 
On Duchray's towers no beacon shone. 
Nor scared the herons from Loch Con ; 
All seem'd at peace. — Now, wot ye why 
The Chieftain, with such anxious eye. 
Ere to the muster he repair, 
This western frontier scann'd with care ?— . 
In Ben venue's most darksome cleft, 
A fair, though cruel, pledge was left; 
For Douglas, to his promise true. 
That morning from the isle withdrew. 
And in a deep sequester'd dell 
Had sought a low and lonely cell. 
By m.any a bard, in Celtic tongue, 
Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung ; ^^ 
A softer name the Saxons gave, 
And call'd the grot the Goblin-cave. 

XXVI. 

It was a wild and strange retreat. 
As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. 
The dell, upon the mountain's crest, 
Yawn'd like a gash on warrior's breast ; 
Its trench had staid full many a rock, 
Hiirl'd by primeval earthquake shock 
From Benvenue's gray summit wild. 
And here, in random ruin piled, 
They frown'd incumbent o'er the spot, 
And form'd the rugged sylvan grot. 
The oak and birch, with mingled shade, 
At noontide there a twilight made. 
Unless when short and suddefl shone 
Som • straggling beam on cliff or stone, 
With such a glimpse as prophet's ej'e 
Gains on thy depth, Futurity. 
No murmur waked the solemn still. 
Save tiniding of a fountain nil ; 
But when tne wind chafed with the lak«, 
A sullen sov.nd would upward break. 
With dashing hcil&w voice, that spoke 
The incessant war of wave and rock. 
Suspended cUffs with hideous sway 
Seem'd nodding o'er the cavern gray. 
From such a den the wolf had sprung. 
In such the wild-cat leaves her young ; 
Yet Douglas and his daughter fair 
Sought for a space their safety there. 
Gray Superstition's whisper dread 
Debarr'd the spot to vulgar tread . 
For there, she said, did fays resort, 
And satyrs * hold their syh'an court, 



*The Highlanders had a mvthological satyr 
or urisk. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



133 



By moonlight tread their mystic maze, 
And blast the rash beholder's gaze. 

XXVII. 

Now eve, with v/estern shadows long, 

Floated on Katrine bright and strong. 

When Roderick, with a chosen few, 

Repass'd the heights of Benvenue, 

Above the Goblin-cave they go. 

Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo : 

The prompt retainers speed before, 

To launch the shallop from the shore, 

For cross Loch Katrine lies his way 

To view the passes of Achray, 

And place his clansmen in array. 

Yet lags the chief in musing mind, 

Unwonted sight, his men behind. 

A single page, to bear his sword, 

Alone attended en his lord ; 

The rest their way through thickets break, 

And soon await him by the lake. 

It was a fair and gallant sight. 

To view them from the neighboring height. 

By the low-levell'd sunbeams' light ! 

For strength and stature, from the clan 

F^ch warrior was a chosen man. 

As even afar might well be seen. 

By their proud step and martial mien. 

Their feathers dance, their tartans float. 

Their targets gleam, as by the boat 

A wild and war-like group they stand, 

That well became such mountain-strand. 

XXVIII. 

The Chief, with step reluctant, still 
Was lingering on the craggy hill, 
Hard by where turn'd apart the road 
To Douglas's obscure abode. 
It was but with that dawning morn, 
That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn 
To drown his love in war's wild roar, 
Nor think of Ellen Douglas more ; 
But he who stems a stream with sand. 
And fetters flame with flaxen band, 
Has yet a harder task to prove — 
By firm resolve to conquer love ! 
Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost. 
Still hovering near his treasure lost ; 
For though his haughty heart deny 
A parting meeting to his eye. 
Still fondly strains his anxious ear. 
The accents of her voice to hear. 
And inly did he curse the breeze 
That waked to sound the rustling trees 
But hark ! what mingles in the strain ? 
It is the harp of Allan-Bane, 
That wakes its measure slow and high, 
Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. 



What melting voice attends the strings ? 
'Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings. 

XXIX, 

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
Ave Maria ! maiden mild ! 

Listen to a maiden's prayer! 
Thou canst hear though from the wild, 

Thou canst save amid despair. 
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, 

Though banish'd, outcast, and reviled— 
Maiden ! hear a m"aiden's prayer ; 

Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria ! 
Ave Maria ' undefiled ! 

The flinty couch we now must share 
Shall seem with down of eider piled. 

If thy protection hover there. 
The murky cavern's heavy air 

Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled ; 
Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; 

Mother, list a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria ' 
Ave Maria I stainless styled ! 

Foul demons of the earth and air. 
From this their wanton haunt exiled, 

Shall flee before thy presence fair. 
We bow us to our lot of care. 

Beneath thy guidance reconciled ; 
Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, 

And for a father hear a child ! 

Ave Maria f 

XXX. 

Died on the harp the closing hymn- 
Unmoved in attitude and limb, • 
As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's lord 
Stood leaning on his heavy sword. 
Until the page, with humble sig.i. 
Twice pointed to the sun's decline. 
Then while his plaid he round him cast, 
" It is the last time — 'tis the last," 
He mutter'd thrice, — "the last time e'er 
That angel voice shall Roderick hear ! " 
It was a goading thought— his stride 
Hied hastier down the mountain-side; 
Sullen he flung him in the boat. 
And instant 'cross the lake it shot. 
They landed in that silvery bay, 
And eastward held their hasty way, 
Till with the latest beams of light. 
The band arrived on Lanrick height, 
Where muster'd, in the vale below, 
Clan-Alpine's men in martial show. 

XXXI. 

A various scene the clansmen made. 
Some sate, some stood, some slowly stray'dj 



T.'?4 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS, 



Brt mo.it with mantles folded round, 
Were couch "d to rest upon the ground, 
Scarce to be known by curious eye, 
From the deep heather where they lie, 
So well was match'd the tartan screen 
With, heath-bell dark and brakens green; 
Unless where, here and there, a blade, 
Or lance's point, a glimmer made. 
Like glow-worm twinkling through the 

shade. 
But when, advancing through the gloom, 
They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume, 
Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide, 
Shook the steep mountain's steady side. 
Thrice it arose, and lake and fell 
Three times return'd the martial yell ; 
It died upon Bochastle's plain, 
And Silence claim'd her evening reign. 



CANTO FOURTH. 

THE PROPHECY. 
I. 

" The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new. 
And hope is brightest when it dawns 
from fears ; 
The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning 

dew. 
And love is loveliest when embalm 'd in 

tears. 
O wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears, 
I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, 
Emblem of hope and love through future 
years ! '' 
Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Ar 
mandave, 
What time the sun arose on Vennachar's 
broad wave. 



Such fond conceit, half said, half sung, 

Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue. 

All while he stripp'd the wild-rose spray, 

His axe and bow beside him lay, 

For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood, 

A wakeful sentinel he stood. 

Hark ! on the rock a footstep rung, 

And instant to his arms he sprung. 

" Stand, or thou diest !— What, Malise ?— 

soon 
Art thou return'd from Braes of Doune. 
By thy keen step and glance I know, 
Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe.'' — 
(For while the Fiery Cross hied on, 
On distant scout had Malise gone.) 



" Where sleeps the Chief .? " the hench- 

m:.n said. — 
" Apart, in yonder misty glade ; 
To his lone couch Til be your guide." — 
Then call'd a slumberer by his side, 
And stirr'd him with his slacken'd bow— 
'• Up, up, Glentarkin ! rouse thee, ho 1 
We seek the Chieftain , on the track, 
Keep eagle watch till I come back," 

III. 
Together up the pass they sped : 
" What of the foemen .? " Norman said.— 
" Varying reports from near and far ; 
This certain — that a band of war 
Has for two days been ready boune. 
At prompt command, to march from 

Doune ; 
King James, the while with princely 

powers. 
Holds revelry in Stirling towers. 
Soon will this dark and gathering cloud 
Speak on our glens in thunder loud. 
Inured to bide such bitter bout, 
The warrior's plaid ar.ay bear it out ; 
But, Norman, how wilt :hou provide 
A shelter for thy bonny bridfc .' '' 
" What '' know ye not chat Roderick's care 
To the lone isle hath caused repair 
Each ma.d and matron of the clan, 
And every chud and aged man 
Unfit for arms ; and given his charge, 
Nor skiff nor shai^op. boat nor barge, 
Upon these lakes shaii float at large, 
But ali beside the islet moor, 
That sich dear p.edge may rest secure .? "— 

IV 

" 'TiG well ad/ised— the Chieftain's plan 

Bespeaks the father of his clan. 

But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu 

Apart from ai'. his followers true .?'' — 

" It is because last evening tide 

Brian an augury hath tried, 

Of that dread kind which must not be 

Unless m dread extremity, 

The Taghairm cail'd ; by which, afar, 

Our sires foresaw the events of war. 3* 

Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew." 

MALISE. 

" Ah 1 well the gallant brute I knew ! 
The choicest of the prey we had. 
When swept our merry-men Gallangad. 
His hide was snow, his horns were dark, 
His red eye glow'd like fieiy spark ; 
So fierce, so tameless, and so fteet, 
Sore did lie cumber our retre;it, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



^Z% 



And kept our stoutest kernes in awe, 

Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. 

But steep and flinty was the road, 

And sharp the hurrying pikemen's goad, 

And when we came to Dennan's Row, 

A child might scatheless stroke his brow."- 



" That bull was slain : his reeking hide 
They stretch'd the cataract beside, 
Whose waters their wild tumult toss 
Adown the black and craggy boss 
Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge 
Tradition calls the Hero's Targe.^^ 
Couch'd on a shelve beneath its brink, 
Close where the thundering torrents sink, 
Rocking beneath their headlong sv/ay, 
And drizzled by the ceaseless spray, 
Midst groan of rock, and roar of stream, 
The wizard waits prophetic dream. 
Nor distant rests the Chief ; — but hush ! 
See, gliding slow through mist and bush. 
The hermit gains yon lock, and stands 
To gaze upon our slumbering bands. 
Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost, 
That hovers o'er a slaughter'd host ? 
Or raven on the blasted oak, 
That, watching while the deer is broke, 
His morsel claims with sullen croak ? '' 



— " Peace ! peace ! to other than to me. 

Thy words were evil augury ; 

But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade 

Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid, 

Not aught that, glean'd from heaven or hell, 

Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell. 

The Chieftain joins him, see — and now. 

Together they descend the brow." 



And as they came with Alpine's Lord 
The Hermit MonV held solemn word:— 
" Roderick ! it is a fearful strife, 
For man endow'd with mortal life, 
Whose shroud of sentient clay can still 
Feel feverish pang and fainting chill. 
Whose eye can stare in stony trance, 
Whose hair can rouse like warrior's lance,- 
'Tis hand for such to view unfurl'd 
The curtain of the future world. 
Yet, witness every quaking limb. 
My sunken pulse, my eyeballs dim. 
My soul with harrowing anguish torn,— 
This for my Chieftain have I borne !— 



The shapes that sought my tearful couch, 

A human tongue may ne'er avouch ; 

No mortal man, — save he, who, bred 

Between the living and the dead, 

Is gifted beyond nature's law,— 

Had e'er survived to say he saw. 

At length the fatal answer came, 

In characters of living flame ! 

Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, 

But borne and branded on my soul ; — 

Which spills the foremost foeman's 

LIFE, 

That party conquers in the 

STRIFE 1"34 



" Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care I 
Good is thine augury, and fair. 
Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stood, 
But first our broadswords tasted blood. 
A surer victim still I know, 
Self-offer'd to the auspicious blow ; 
k spy has sought my land this morn, — 
No eye shall witness his return ! 
My followers guard each pass's mouth, 
To east, to westward, and to south ; 
Red Murdock, bribed to be his guide. 
Has charge to lead his steps aside. 
Till, in deep path or dingle brown. 
He light on those shall bring him down. 
— But see, who comes his news to show ! 
Malise ! what tidings of the foe .? " — 

VIII. 

" At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive 

Two Barons proud their banners wave. 

I saw the Moray's silver star. 

And mark'd the sable pale ot Mar." — 

" By Alpine's soul, high tidings those ! 

I love to hear of worthy foes. 

When move they on.?" — "To-morrow's 

noon 
Will see them here for battle boune." — 
" Then shall it see a meeting stern ! — 
But, for the place— say, couldst thou learn 
Nought of the friendly clans of Earn .-' 
Strengthen'd by them, we well might bide 
The battle on Benledi's side. 
Thou couldst not i* — Well ! Clan-Alpine's 

men 
Shall man the Trosach's shaggy glen ; 
Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll fight, 
All in our maids' and matrons' sight. 
Each for his hearth and household fire. 
Father for child, and son for sire, — 
Lover for maid beloved ! — But why — 
Is it the breeze affects mine eye ? 



136 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Or dost thou come, ill-omen'd tear ! 

A messenger of doubt or fear ? 

No ! sooner may the Saxon lance 

Unfix Benledi from his stance, 

Than doubt or terror can pierce through 

The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu ! 

'Tis stubborn as his trusty targe. — 

Each to his post ! — all know their charge." 

The pibroch sounds, the bands advance, 

The broadswords gleam, the banners 

dance. 
Obedient to the Chieftain's glance. 
— I turn me from the martial roar, 
And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. 



Where is the Douglas ? — he is gone ; 
And Ellen sits on the gray stone 
Fast by the cave, and makes her moan 
While vainly Allan's words of cheer 
Are pour'd on her unheeding ear. — 
" He will return — Dear lady, trust ! — 
With joy return ; — he will — he must. 
Well was it time to seek, afar, 
Some refuge from impendmg war, 
When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarm 
Are cow'd by the approachmg storm. 
I saw their boats with many a light, 
Floating the live-long yesternight, 
Shifting like flashes darted forth 
By the red streamers of the north ; 
I mark'd at morn how close they ride, 
Thick moor'd by the lone islet's side, 
Like wild-ducks couching in the fen. 
When stoops the hawk upon the glen. 
Since this rude race dare not abide 
The peril on the mainland side. 
Shall not thy noble father's care 
Some safe retreat for thee prepare ? " — 

X. 

ELLEN. 

" No, Allan, no ! Pretext so kind 
My wakeful terrors could not blind. 
When in such tender tone, yet grave, 
pouglas a parting blessing gave. 
The tear that glisten'd in his eye 
Drown'd not his purpose fix'd on high. 
My soul, though feminine and weak, 
Can image his ; e'en as the lake. 
Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke, 
keflects the invulnerable rock. 
He hears report of battle rife, 
He deems himself the cause of strife. 
I saw him redden, when the theme 
Turn'd, Allan, on thine idle dream, 



Of Malcolm Graeme, in fetters bound, 
Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. 
Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen aught? 
Oh no 1 'twas apprehensive thought 
For the kind youth, — for Roderick too — 
(Let me be just) that friend so true ; 
In danger both, and in our cause ! 
Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. 
Why else that solemn warning given, 
' If not on earth, we meet in heaven I ' 
Why else, to C ambus kenneth's fane, 
If eve return him not again, 
Am I to hie, and make me known ? 
Alas ! he goes to Scotland's throne, 
Buys his friend's safety with his own ;— 
He goes to do — what I had done, 
Had Douglas' daughter been his son I "— 



'*' Nay, lovely Ellen ! — dearest, nay ! 
If aught shodld his return delay. 
He only named yon holy fane 
As fitting place to meet again. 
Be sure he's safe ; and for the Grasme,- 
Heaven's blessing on his gallant name!- 
My vision'd sight may yet prove true, 
Nor bode of ill to him or you. 
When did my gifted dream beguile ? 
Think of the stranger at the isle, 
And think upon the harpings slow, 
That presaged this approaching woe ? 
Sooth was my prophecy of fear ; 
Believe it when it augurs cheer. 
Would we had left this dismal spot ! 
Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot. 
Of such a wondrous tale I know — 
Dear lady, change that look of woe. 
My harp was wont thy grief to cheer."- 

ELLEN. 

" Well, be it as thou wilt ; I hear. 
But cannot stop the bursting tear." 
The Minstrel tried his simple art, 
But distant far was Ellen's heart. 



BALLAD. . 

Alice Brand. 
Merry it is in the good greenwood. 
Where the mavis * and m.erle \ are 
singing. 
When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds 
are in cry. 
And the hunter's horn is rintring. 



* Mavis, a thrush. 



t Merle, a blackbird. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



m 



** O Alice Brand, my native land 

Is lost for love of you ; 
And we must hold by wood and wold, 

As outlaws wont to do. 

" O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright. 
And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, 

That on the night of our luckless flight, 
Thy brother bold 1 slew. 

*Now must I teach to hew the beech 

The hand that held the glaive, 
For leaves to spread our lowly bed, 

And stakes to fence our cave. 

"And for vest of pall, thy fingers small, 

That wont on harp to stray, 
A cloak must sh:er from the slaughter'd 
deer, 

To keep the cold away." — 

'* O Richard ! if my brother died, 

'Twas but a fatal chance, 
For darkling was the battle tried, 

And fortune sped the lance. 

" If pall and vair no more I wear. 

Nor thou the crimson sheen, 
As v/arm, we'll say, is the russet gray, 

As gay the forest green. 

" And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 

And lost thy native land, 
Still Alice has her own Richard, 

And he his Alice Brand." 



BALLAD CONTINUED. 

'TIS merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood. 
So blithe Lady Alice is singing ; 

On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side. 
Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 

Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 
Who wonn'd within the hill, — 

Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church, 
His voice was ghostly shrill. 

• Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, 

Our moonlit circle's screen ? 
Or who comes here to chase the deer. 

Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? ^s 
Or who may dare on wold to wear 

The fairies' fatal green ? ^6 

" Up, Urgan, up ! to yon mortal hie, 
For thou wert christen 'd man ; ^7 

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, 
For mutter'd word or ban. 



" Lay on him the curse of the witlier'd 
heart, 
The curse of the sleepless eye ; 
Till he wish and pray that his life would 
part, 
Ncr yet find leave to die.'' 



BALLAD CONTINUED. 

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, 

Though the birds have still'd their sing 
ing ; 
The evening blaze doth Alice raise, 

And Richard is fagots bringing. 
Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf 

Before Lord Richard stands, 
And, as he cross'd and bless'd himself, 
" I fear not sign,'' quoth the grizly elf, 

" That is made with bloody hands." 
But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 

That woman void of fear, — 
" And if there's blood upon his band, 

'Tis but the blood of deer " — 
" Now loud thou hest, thou bo'd of mood i 

It cleaves unto his hand, 
The stain of thine own kindly blood. 

The blood of Ethert Brand " 
Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, 

And made the holy sign,— 
" And if there's blood on Richard's hand, 

A spotless hand is mine. 
" And I conjure thee. Demon elf, 

By Him whom Demons fear. 
To show us whence thou art thyself, 

And what thine errand here ? " — 

XV. 
BALLAD CONTINUED. 

" 'Tis merry, 'tis merry in Fairy-land, 

When fairy birds are singing, 
When the court doth ride by their mot^ 
arch's side, ^ 

With bit and tridle ringing : 

" And gayly shines the Fairy-land — 

But all is glistening show, 
Like the idle gleam that December's bc-a-i. 

Can dart on ice and snow. 

" And fading, like that varied gleam^ 

Is our inconstant shape, 
Who now like knight and lady seem. 

And now like dwarf and ape. 

" It was between the night and day. 
When the Fairy King has pow«r. 



13^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That I sunk down in a sinful fray, 
And 'tvvixt life and death, was snatch'd 
away 

To the joyless Elfin bower. 
" But wist I of a woman bold, 

Who thrice my brow durst sign, 
I might regain my mortal mould, 

As fair a form as thine." 

She cross'd him once — she cross'd him 
twice — 

That lady was so brave ; 
The fouler grew his goblin hue, 

The darker grew the cave. 

She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold ; 

He rose beneath her hand 
The fairest knight on Scottish mould, 

Her brother, Ethert Brand ! 
Merry it is in good greenwood, 

When the mavis and merle are smging, 
But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray, 

When all the bells were ringing. 



Just as the minstrel sounds were staid, 

A stranger climb'd the steepy glade : 

His martial step, his stately mien, 

His hunting suit of Lincoln green. 

His eagle glance, remembrance claims — 

'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz- 

James. 
Ellen beheld as in a dream. 
Then, starting, scarce suppress'd a scream ; 
" O stranger ! in such hour of fear, 
What evil hap has brought thee here ? " — 
"An evil hap how can it be, 
That bids me look again on thee ? 
By promise bound, my former guide 
Met me betimes this morning tide, 
And marshal! 'd, over bank and bourne, 
The happy path of my return." — 
^ 'i"he happy path ! — what ! said he nought 
Of war, of battle to be fought, 
Of guarded pass ? " — " No, by my faith ! 
Nor saw I aught could augur scathe." — 
" ■ ^ haste thee, Allan, to the kern, 
— Yonder his tartans I discern ; 
Learn thou his purpose, and conjure 
That he will guide the stranger sure ! — 
What prompted thee, unhappy man ? 
The meanest serf in Roderick's clan 
Had not been bribed by love or fear, 
Unknown to him to guide thee here," — . 



*' Sweet Ellen, dear my life njust be, 
ijmce it is v/orthy care from tliee ; 



Yet life I hold but idle breath, 

When love or honor's weigh'd with death. 

Then let me profit by my chance, 

And speak my purpose bold at once. 

I come to bear thee from a wild, 

Where ne'er before such blossom smiled; 

By this soft hand to lead thee far 

From frantic scenes of feud and war. 

Near Bochastle my horses wait ; 

They bear us soon to Stirling gate. 

I'll place thee in a lovely bower, 

I'll guard thee like a tender flower " — — » 

"O! hush, Sir Knight! 'twere female 

art. 
To say I do not read thy heart ; 
Too much, before, my selfish ear 
Was idly soothed my praise to hear. 
That fatal bait hath lured thee back. 
In deathful hcur, o'er dangerous track ; 
And how, O how, can I atone 
The wreck my vanity brought on ! 
One way remains — I'll tell him all — 
Yes ! struggling bosom, forth it shall ! 
Thou, whose light folly bears the blamo, 
Buy thine own pardon with thy shame I 
But first -^my father is a man 
Outlaw'd and exiled, under ban •, 
The price of blood is on his head, 
Wit'n me 'twere infamy towed. — 
Still wouldst thou speak.? — then hear t^e 

truth I 
Fitz-James, there is a noble youth,—- 
If yet he is ! — exposed for me 
And mine to dread extremity — - 
Thou hast the secret of my heart : 
Forgive, be generous, and depart 1 



Fitz-James knew every wily train 

A lady's fickle heart to gain ; 

But here he knew and felt them vain. 

There shot no glance from Ellen's eye. 

To give her steadfast speech the lie, 

In maiden confidence she stood, 

Though mantled in her cheek the blood. 

And told her love with such a sigh 

Of deep and hopeless agony. 

As death had seal'd her Malcolm's doom 

And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. 

Hope vanish'd from Fitz-James's eye, 

But not with hope fled sympathy. 

He proffer'd to attend her side. 

As brother would a sister guide. — 

" ! little know'st thou Roderick's heart I 

Safer for both we go apart. 

O haste thee^ and from Allan learn. 

If thou may'st trust }"on wily kern.** 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE- 



139 



With hand upon his forehead laid, 

The conflict of his mind to shade, 

A parting step or two he made ; 

Then, as some thought had cross'd his 

brain, 
He paused, and turn'd, and came again. 

XIX, 

" H»ar, lady, yet a parting word ! — 

It chanced in fight that my poor sword 

Preserved the hfe of Scotland's lord. 

This ring the grateful monarch gave. 

And bade when 1 had boon to crave, 

To bring it back, and boldly claim 

The recompense that I would name. 

Ellen, 1 am no courtly lord. 

But one who lives by lance and sword, 

Whose castle is his helm and shield, 

His lordship the embattled field. 

What from a prince can I demand, 

Who neither reck of state nor land ? 

Ellen, thy hand— the ring is thine ; 

Each guard and usher knows the sign 

Seek thou the king without delay ; 

This signet shall secure thy way; 

And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, 

As ransom of his pledge to me." 

He placed the golden circlet on, 

Paused — kiss'd her hand — and then was 

gone. 
The aged Tilinstrel stood aghast, 
So hastily Fitz-James shot past. 
He join'd his guide, and wending down 
The ridges of the mountain brown. 
Across the stream they took their way, 
That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. 

XX. 
All in the Trosach's glen was still. 
Noontide was sleeping on the hill ; 
Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high — 
" Murdoch ! was that a signal cry ? " — 
He stammer'd forth, — " I shout to scare 
Yon raven from his dainty fare." 
He look'd — he knew the raven's prey. 
His own brave steed : — " Ah ! gallant gray ! 
For thee — for me, perchance — 'twere well 
We ne'er had seen the Trosach's dell.— 
Murdoch, move first — but silently ; 
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die ! " 
Jealous and sullen on they fared. 
Each silent, each upon his guard. 

XXI. 
Now wound the path its dizzy ledge 
Around a precipice's edge. 
When lo ! a wasted female form. 
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, 



In tatter'd weeds and wild array. 
Stood on a cliff beside the way. 
And glancing round her restless eye^ 
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, 
Seem'd nought to mark, yet all to spy. 
Her brow was v/reath'd with gaudy broom 
With gesture wild she waved a plume 
Of feathers, which the eagles fling 
To crag and cliff from dusky wing ; 
Such spoils her desperate, step had sought, 
Where scarce was footmg for the goat. 
The tartan plaid she first descried, 
And shriek'd till all the rocks replied ; 
As loud she laugh'd v.-hen near they drew, 
For then the Lowland garb she knew ; 
And then her hands she wildly wrung, 
And then she v/ept, and then she sung — 
She sung 1 — the voice, in better time, 
Perchance to harp or lute might chime ; 
And now, tho' strain'd and roughen'd, still 
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill 



SONG. 

" They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, 

They say my brain is warp'd and wrung— 
I cannot sleep on Highland brae, 

1 cannot pray in Highland tongue. 
But were I now where Allan * glides, 
Or heard my native Devan's tides. 
So sweetly would I rest, and pray 
That Heaven would close my wintry day ! 

" 'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, 
They made me to the church repair ; 

It was my bridal morn they said. 

And my true love would meet me there. 

But woe betide the cruel guile, 

That drown'd in blood tl;e morning smile 1 

And woe betide the fairy dream I 

I only waked to sob and scream." 

XXIII. 

" Who is this maid ? what means her lay ? 
She hovers o'er the hollow way. 
And flutters wide her mantle gray, 
As the lone heron spreads his wing, 
By twilight, o'er a haunted spring!" — 
" 'Tis Blanche of Devan," Murdoch said, 
" A crazed and captive Lowland maid, 
Ta'en on the morn she was a bride. 
When Roderick foray'd Devan-sidc. 
The gay bridegroom resistance made. 
And felt our Chief's unconquer'd blade. 



* Allan and Dcvan, two rivers running 
through Stirling Plain. 



14^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I marvel she is now at large, 

But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge. — 

Hence, brain-sick fool!" — He raised his 

bow : — 
" Now, if thou strijcest her but one blow, 
I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far 
As ever peasant pitch'd a bar ! " — 
*' Thanks, champion, thanks 1 " the Maniac 

cried, 
And press'd her to Fitz-James's side. 
* See the gray pennons 1 prepare, 
To seek my true-love through the air ; 
1 will not lend that savage groom, 
To break his fall, one downy plume ! 
No ! — deep amid disjointed stones, 
The wolves shall batten on his bones, 
And then shall his detested plaid. 
By bush and briar in mid air staid, 
Wave forth a banner fair and free, 
Meet signal for their revelry." — 

XXIV. 

" Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still 1 " — 
" O ! thou look'st kindly, and I will. — 
Mine eye has dried and wasted been, 
But still it loves the Lincoln green ; 
And, though mine ear is all unstrung. 
Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue. 
" For O my sweet William was forester 

true. 
He stole poor Blanche's heart away ! 
His coat it was all of the greenwood liue, 
And so blithely he trill'd the Lowland 

lay! 
" It was not that I meant to tell, 
But thou art wise and guessest well." 
Then, in a low and broken tone, 
And hurried note, the song went on. 
Still on the Clansman, fearfull}--, 
She fix'd her apprehensive eye ; 
Then turn'd it on the Knight, and then 
Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen. 

XXV. 

** The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes are 
set, 
Ever sing merrily, merrily ; 
The bows they bend, and the knives they 
whet. 
Hunters live so cheerily. 

" It was a stag, a stag of ten,* 
Bearing its branches sturdily; 

He came stately down the glen, 
Ever sing hardily, hardily. 

♦ Of ten branches to his antlers : a royal or 
Doble deer. 



" It was there he met witu a wounded 
doe, 

She was bleeding deathfully ; 
She warn'd him of the toils below, 

O, so faithfully, faithfully ! 

" He had an eye, and he could heed, 

Ever sing warily, warily ; 
He had a foot, and he could speed—* 

Hunters watch so narrowly." 



Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd, 

When Ellen's hints and fears were lost ; 

But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought, 

And Blanche's song conviction brought.-^ 

Not like a stag that spies the snare, 

But lion of the hunt aware. 

He waved at once his blade on high, 

" Disclose thy treachery, or die ! " 

Forth at full speed the Clansman flew, 

But in his race his bow he drew. 

The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest, 

And thrill'd in Blanche's faded breast, — 

Murdoch of Alpine ! prove thy speed. 

For ne'er had Alpine's son such need 1 

With heart of fire, and foot of wind, 

The fierce avenger is behind ! 

Fate judges of the rapid strife — * 

The forfeit death — the prize is life i 

Thy kindred ambush lies before. 

Close couch'd upon the heathery moor ; 

Them couldst thou reach — it may not be — 

Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt see, 

The fiery Saxon gains on thee ! 

— Resistless speeds the deadly thrust. 

As lightning strikes the pine to dust ; 

With foot and hand Fitz-James must 

strain, 
Ere he can win his blade again. 
Bent o'er the fallen, with falcon eye, 
He grimly smiled to see him die ; 
Then slower wended back his way. 
Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. 

XXVII. 

She sate beneath the birchen tree, 

Her elbow resting on her knee ; 

She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, 

And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd ; 

Her wreath of broom and feathers gray, 

Daggled with blood, beside her lay. 

The Knight to stanch the life-strean^ 

tried, — 
" Stranger, it is in vain ! " she cried. 
" This hour of death has given me more 
Of reason's po>ver than years before : 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



141 



For, as these ebbing veins decay, 
My frenzied visions fade away. 
A helpless injured wretch I die, 
And something tells me in thine eye, 
That thou wcrt mine avenger born. — 
Seest thou this tress ? — ! still I've worn 
This httle tress of yellow hair, 
Through danger, frenzy, and despair ! 
It once was bright and clear as thine, 
3ut blood and tears have dimm'd its shine, 
i will net tell thee when 'twas shred, 
Nor fr; m v;hat guiltless victim's head — 
My bram wculd turn ! — but it shall wave 
Likj plumage en. thy helmet brave. 
Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, 
And thou wilt bring it me again. — 
I waver still. — O God ! more bright 
Let reason beam her parting light ! — - 
() ! by thy knighthood's honor'd sign, 
And for thy life preserved by mine, 
When thou shalt see a darksome man, 
Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's Clan, 
With tartans broad and shadowy plume. 
And hand of blood, and brow of gloom. 
Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, 
And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's 

wrong ! — 
They watch for thee by pass and fell . . . 
Avoid the path . . , O God! .... fare- 
well." 

XXVIII. 

A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James ; 

Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims, 

And now with mingled grief and ire, 

He saw the murder'd maid expire. 

" God, in my need, be my relief, 

As I wreak this on yonder Chief ! " 

A. lock from Blanche's tresses fair 

He blended with her bridegroom's hair ; 

The mingled braid in blood he dyed. 

And placed it on his bonnet-side : 

" By Him whose word is truth ! I swear, 

No other favor will I v/ear. 

Till this sad token I imbrue 

in the best blood of Roderick Dhu ! 

— But hark ! what means yon faint halloo ? 

The chase is up, — but they shall know, 

The stag at bay 's a dangerous foe." 

Barr'd from the known but guarded 

way, 
Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James nuisl 

stray, 
And oft must change his desperate track, 
By stream and precipice turn'd back. 
Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, 
From lack of food and loss of strength, 



He couch'd him in a thicket hoar. 
And thought his toils and perils o'er : — 
" Of all my rash adventures past. 
This frantic feat must prove the last ! 
Who e'er so mad but might have giiess'd, 
That all this Highland hornet's nest 
Would muster up in swarms so soon 
As e'er they heard of bands at Dounc ? — 
Like bloodhounds now they search nis 

out,— 
Hark, to the whistle and the shout ! — 
If farther through the wilds I go, 
I only fall upon the foe : 
I'll couch me here till evening gray, 
Then darkling try my dangerous way.'' 

XXIX. 

The shades of eve come slowly down, 
The woods are wrapt in deeper brown, 
The owl awakens from h^ dell, 
The fox is heard upon the fell ; 
Enough remains of glimmering light 
To guide the wanderer's stops aright. 
Yet not enough from far to show 
His figure to the watchful foe. 
With cautious step, and ear awake, 
He climbs the crag and threads the braka , 
And not the summer solstice, there, 
Temper'd the midnight mountain air, 
But every breeze, that swept the wold, 
Benumb'd his drenched limba with cold. 
In dread, in danger, and alone, 
Famish'd and chili'd, through wa>:s un- 
known. 
Tangled and steep, he journey'd on ; 
Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd, 
A watch-fire close before him burn'd. 

XXX. 

Beside its embers red and clear, 
Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer ; 
And up he sprung with sword in hand, — 
" Thy name and purpose ! Saxon. 

stand ! " — 
"A stranger."— " What dost thou in- 
quire ? " 
■' Rest and a .p^uide, and food and fire. 
My life's beset, my path is lost. 
The gale has chili'd my limbs with frost." 
" Art thou a friend to Roderick 1 "— 

"No."— 
" Thou darest not call thyself a foe "i " — 
■' 1 dare ! to him and all the band 
He brings to aid his murderous hand." — 
" Bold words ! — but, though the beast o 

garrie 
The privilege of chase may claim, 



1 4a 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Though space and law the stag we lend, 
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, 
Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when. 
The prowUng fox was trapp'd or slain ? ^s 
Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie, 
Who say thou earnest a secret spy ! '' 
*' They do, by heaven ! — Come Roderick 

Dhu, 
And of his clan the boldest two. 
And let me but till morning rest, 
I write the falsehood on their crest. ''- 
" If by the blaze I mark aright, 
Thou bear'st the belt and spur of 

Knight." — 
*' Then by these tokens mayest thou know 
Each proud oppressor's mortal foe." — 
*' Enough, enough ; sit down and share 
A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare." 

XXXI. 

He gave him of his Highland cheer. 

The harden'd flesh of mountain deer ; ^9 

Dry fuel on the fire he laid, 

And bade the Saxon share his plaid. 

He tended him like welcome guest. 

Then thus his farther speech address'd. 

" Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu 

A clansman born, a kinsman true ; 

Each word against his honor spoke. 

Demands of me avenging stroke ; 

Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said, 

A mighty augury is laid. 

It rests with me to wind my horn, — 

Thou art with numbers overborne ; 

It rests with me, here, brand to brand. 

Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand : 

But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause. 

Will I depart from honor's laws ; 

To assail a wearied man were shame, 

And stranger is a iioly name ; 

Guidance and rest, and food and fire. 

In vain he never must require. 

Then rest thee here till dawn of day ; 

Myself will guide thee on the way, 

O'er stock and stone, through watch and 

ward, 
Till past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. 
As far as Coilantogle's ford ; 
From thence thy warrant is thy sword." — 
" I take thy courtesy, by heaven, 
A's freely as 'tis nobly given ! " 
" Well, rest thee ; for the bittern's cry 
Sings us the lake's wild lullabv." 
With that he shook the gather'd heath. 
And spread his plaid upon the wreath ; 
And the brave foemen, side by side. 
Lay peaceful down like brothers tried, 



And slept until the dawning beam 
Purpled the mountain and the stream. 



CANTO FIFTH. 

THE COMBAT. 
I. 

Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, 
When first, by the bewilder'd pilgrim 
spied. 
It smiles upon the dreary brow of night, 
And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming 
tide. 
And lights the fearful path on mountain 
side. 
Fair as that beam, although the fairest 
far, 
Giving to horror grace, to danger pride. 
Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's 
bright star, 
Through all the wreckful storms that 
cloud the brow of War. 



That early beam, so fair and sheen, 
Was twinkling through the hazel screen, 
When, rousing at its glimmer red. 
The warriors left their lowly bed, 
Look'd out upon the dappled sky, 
Mutter'd their soldier matins by. 
And then awaked their fire, to steal. 
As short and rude, their soldier meal. 
That o'er, the Gael * around him threv^ 
His graceful plaid of varied hue. 
And, true to promise, led the way. 
By thicket green and mountain gray. 
A wildering path I — they winded now 
Along the precipice's brow. 
Commanding the rich scenes beneath, 
The windings of the Forth and Teith, 
And all the vales beneath that lie, 
Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky ; 
Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance 
Gain'd not the length of horseman's lance. 
'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain 
Assistance from the hand to gain ; 
So tangled oft, that, bursting through, 
Each hawthorn shed her showers of dev,', — .' 
That diamond dew, so pure and clear. 
It rivals all but Beauty's tear ! 

III. 
At length they came where, stern and steqo, 
The hill sinks down upon the deep. 



* Gael, the ancient or Celtic name of a Higli- 
lander. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



143 



Here Vennachar in silver flows, 
There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose ; 
Ever the hollow path twined on, 
Beneath steep bank and threatening stone ; 
An hundred men might hold the post 
With hardihood against 3 host. 
The rugged mountain's scanty cloak 
"Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak, 
With shingles bare, and cliffs between, 
And patches bright of bracken green. 
And heather black, that waved so high. 
It held the copse in rivalry. 
But where the lake slept deep andst'll, 
Dank osiers fringed the swamp andhiil ; 
And oft both path and hill were torn. 
Where wintry torrents down had borne, 
And heap'd upon the cumber'd land 
Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. 
So toilsome was the road to trace, 
The guide, abating of his pace, 
Led slowly through the pass's jaws. 
And ask'd Fitz-James, by what strange cause 
H? sought thes3 wilds ? traversed by few, 
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. 

IV, 

" Brav2 Gael, my pass in danger tried, 
Hangs in my belt and by my side ; 
Yet, sooth to tell," the Saxon said, 
"I dreamt not now to claim its aid. 
When here, but three days since, I came, 
,Bewilder'd in pursuit of game. 
All seem'd as peaceful and as still 
As the mist slumbering on yon hill } 
Thy dangerous Chief was then afar, 
Nor soon expected back from war. 
Thus said, at least, my mountain-guide, 
Though deep, perchance, the villain lied." — 
" Yet why a second venture try ^ " 
" A warrior thou, and ask me why! — 
Moves our free course by such fix'd cause, 
As gives tha poor mechanic laws : 
Enough, I sought to drive away 
The lazy hours of peaceful day : 
Slight caus2 will then suffice to guide 
A Knight's free footsteps far and wide — 
A falcon flown, a greyhound stray'd, 
The merry glance of mountain maid: 
Or, if a path be dangerous known, 
The danger's self is lure alone." 

^ V. 

" Thy secret keep, I urge thee not : — 
Yet, ere again ye sought this spot, 
Say, heard ye nought of Lowland war, 
Against Clan-Alpine, raised by Mar ? " 
— " No, by my word ;— of bands prepared 
To guard King James's sports I hoard ; 



Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear 
This muster of the mountaineer. 
Their pennons will abroad be flung, 
Which else in Doune had peaceful hung." — ■ 
'' Free be they flung ! — for we were loth 
Their silken folds should feast the moth. 
Free be they flung ! — as free shall v/ave 
Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. 
But, Stranger, peaceful since you came, 
Bewilder'd in the mountain game. 
Whence the bold boast by which you show 
Vich-Alpine's vow'd and mortal foe ? " — 
" Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew 
Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
Save as an outlaw'd desperate man, 
The chief of a rebellious clan, 
Who, in the Regent's court and sight, 
With ruffian dagger stabb'd a knight : 
Yet this alone might from his part 
Sever each true and loyal heart." 

VI. 

Wrathful at such arraignment foul, 
Dark lower'd the clansman's sable scowl, 
A space he paused, than sternly said, 
" And heard'st thou why he drew his blade! 
Heard'st thou that shameful word and b-ow 
drought Roderick's vengeance on his foe ? 
What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood 
On Highland heath, or Holy-Rood i* 
He rights such wrong where it is given, 
If it were in the court of heaven," — 
" Still was it outrage ; — yet, 'tis true, 
Not then claim'd sovereignty his due; 
While Albany, with feeble hand. 
Held borrowed truncheon of command,''^^ 
The young King, mew'd in Stirling tower, 
Was stranger to respect and power. 
But then, thy Chieftain's robber life ! — 
Winning mean prey by causeless strife. 
Wrenching from ruin'd Lowland swain 
His herds and harvest rear'd in vain. — 
Methinks a soul, like thine, should scorn 
The spoils from such foul foray borne." 

VII. 

The Gael beheld him grim the while. 
And answer'd with disdainful smile, — 
'' Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 
I mark'd thee send delighted eye. 
Far to the south and east, where lay. 
Extended in succession gay. 
Deep waving fields and pastures green, 
With gentle slopes and groves between > '■-' 
These fertile plains, that soften'd vale, 
Were once the birthright of the Gael ; 
The stranger came with iron hand. 
And from our fathers reft the landL 



14^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where dwell we now ? See, rudely swell 

Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. 

Ask we this savage hill we tread, 

For fatten 'd steer or household bread : 

Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, 

And v/ell the mountain might reply, — 

' To you, as to your sires of yore, 

Belong the target and clajmore! 

I give you shelter in my breast, 

Your own good blades must win the rest.' 

Pent in this fortress of the North, 

Think'st thou we will not sally forth, 

To spoil the spoiler as we may. 

And from the robber rend the prey? 

Ay, by my soul ! — While on yon plain 

The Saxon rears one shock of grain ; 

While, of ten thousand herds, there strays 

But one along yon river's maze, — 

The Gael, of plain and river heir. 

Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share. 

Where live the mountain chiefs who hold, 

That plundering Lovdand field and fold 

Is aught but retribution true ? 

Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu." — 

VIII. 

Answer'd Fitz-Jam:s, — "And, if I sought, 

Think'st thou no other could be brought ? 

What deem ye of my path waylaid ? 

My life given o'er to ambuscade ? " — 

" As of a meed to rashness due : 

Hadst thou sent w".rning fair and true,— 

T seek my hound, or falcon stray'd, 

I seek, good faith, a HigJiIand maid, — 

Free hadst thou been to come and go ; 

But secret path marks secret foe. 

Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, 

Hadst thou, unheard, been doom'd to die, 

Save to fulfil an augury."' — 

" Well, let it pass ; nor will I now 

Fresh cause of enmity avow, 

To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. 

Enough, I am by promise tied 

To match me with tliis man of pride : 

Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen 

In peace; but when I come agen, 

I come with banner, brand, and bow,' 

As leader seeks his mortal foe. 

For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, 

Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, 

As I, until before me stand 

This rebel Chieftain and his band I " — 

IX. 

** Have, then, thy wish ! " — He whistled 

shrill, 
And he was answer'd from the hill ; 



Wild as the scream of the curlew, 

From crag to crag the signal flew. 

Instant, through ccpse and heath, arose 

Bonnets and spears and bended bows ; 

On right, on left, above, below. 

Sprung up at once the lurking foe ;. 

From shingles gray their lances start, 

The bracken bush sends forth the dart, 

The rushes and the willow-wand 

Are bristling into axe and brand, 

And every tuft of broom gives life 

To plaided warrior arm'd for strife. 

That whistle garrison'd the glen 

At once with full five hundred n^en, 

As if the yawning hill to heaven 

A subterranean host had given. 

Watching their leader's beck and will, 

All silent there they stood, and still. 

Like the loose crags, whose threatening 

mass 
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass. 
As if an infant's touch could urge 
Their headlong passage down the verge. 
With step and.weaf)on forward flung, 
Upon the mountain-side they hung. 
The Mountaineer cast glance of pride 
Along Benledi's living side. 
Then fix'd his eye and sable brow 
Full on Fitz-James — " How say'st thou 

now ? 
These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true ; 
And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu ! " 



Fitz-James was brave : — Though to his 

heart 
The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start, 
He mann'd himself with dauntless air, 
Return'd the chief his liaughty stare, 
His back against a rock he bore, 
And firmly placed his foot before : — 
" Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly. 
From its firm base as soon as I." 
Sir Roderick mark'd — and in his eyes 
Respect was mingled with surprise, 
And the stern joy which warriors feel 
In foemen worthy of their steel. 
Short space he stood — then waved his hand, 
Down sunk the disappearing band ; 
Each warrior vanish'd where he stood. 
In broom or bracken, heath or wood ; ^ 
Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, 
In osiers pale and copses low ; 
It seem'd as if their mother Earth 
Had swallow'd up her warlike birth. 
The wind's last breath had toss'din air, 
Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair, — 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



145 



The next but swept a lone hill-side, 
Where heath and fern were waving wide . 
The sun's last glance was glinted back 
From spear and glaive, from targe and 

jack, — 
The next, all unreflected shone 
On bracken green and cold gray stone. 



Fitz-James look'd round — yet scarce be- 
lieved 
rice witness that his sight received ; 
Such apparition well might seem 
Delusion of a dreadful dream. 
Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, 
And to his look the Chief rephed, 
" Fear nought — nay, that I need not say — 
But — doubt not aught from mine array. 
Fhou irt my guest ; — I pledged my word 
As far as Coilantogle ford : 
Nor would I call a clansman's brand 
For aid agamst one valiant hand, 
Though (;n our strife lay every vale 
Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. 
So move we ( n ; — I only meant 
To show the reed on which you leant. 
Deeming this path you might pursue 
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu." ■♦' 
They moved : — I said Fitz-James was 

brave, 
As ever knight that belted glaive ; 
Yet dare not say, that now his blood 
Kept on its wont and temper'd flood, 
As, following Roderick's stride, he drew 
That seeming lonesome pathway through, 
Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife 
With lances, that, to take his life. 
Waited but signal from a guide, 
So late dishonor'd and defied. 
Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round 
The vanish'd guardians of the ground, 
And still, from copse and heather deep. 
Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep, 
And in the plover's shrilly strain, 
The signal whistle heard again. 
Nor breathed he free till far behind 
The pass was left ; for then they wind 
Along a wide and level green, 
tVhere neither tree nor tuft was seen, 
Nor rush, nor bush of broom was near, 
To hide a bonnet or a spear. 



The Chief in silence strode before, 
And reach'd that torrent's sounding shors, 
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes. 
Ffom Vennachar in silver breaks, 



Sv/eeps through the plain, and ceaseless 

mines 
On Bochastle the mouldering lines. 
Where Rome, the Empress of the world, 
Of yore her eagle wings unfurrd.'*^ 
And here his course the Chieftain staid, 
Threw down his target and his plaid. 
And to the Lowland warrior said : — 
" Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust. 
This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, 
This head of a rebellious clan, 
Hath led thee safe through watch and war^ 
Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. 
Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 
A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. 
See here, all vantageless I stand, 
Arm'd, like thyself, with single brand : ^^ 
For this is Coilantogle ford, 
And thou must keep thee with thy sword." 



The Saxon paused : — " I ne'er delay'd. 
When foeman bade me draw my blade ; 
Nay, more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy death : 
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, 
And my deep debt for life preserved, 
A better meed have well deserved : 
Can nought but blood our feud atone ? 
Are there no means?" — "No, Stranger, 

none ! 
And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — 
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ; 
For thus spoke Fate, by proph, t bred 
Between the living and th.- dead ; 
* Who spills the foremost foeman', life, 
His party conquers m tho strife' "— 
" Then, by my word," th; Saxon said. 
" The riddle is already read. 
Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, — 
There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff- 
Thus Fate has solved her prophecy. 
Then yield to Fate, and not to me. 
To James, at Stirling, let us go, 
When, if thou wilt be still his foe, 
Or if the King shall not agree 
To grant thee grace and favor free, 
I plight mine honor, oath, and word, 
That, to thy native strengths restored. 
With each advantage shalt thou stand. 
That aids thee now to guard thy land.'- 



Dark lightning fiash'd from Roderick's 

eye — 
" Soars thy presumption, then, so high, 



14<5 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Because a wretched kern ye slew, 
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ? 
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate ! 
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate : — 
My clansman's blood demands revenge. 
Not yet prepared ? — By heaven, I change 
My thought, and hold thy valor light 
As that of some vain carpet knight, 
Who ill deserved my courteous care, 
And whose best boast is but to wear 
A braid of his fair lady's hair.''— 
" I thank thee, Roderick, for the word ! 
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; 
For Ihave sworn this braid to stain 
In the best blood that warms thy vein. 
Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! — 
Yet think not that by thee alone. 
Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ! 
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, 
Start at my whistle clansmen stern, 
Of this small horn one feeble blast 
WoLdd fearful odds agamst thee cast. 
But fear not — doubt not — which thou 

wilt— 
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." — 
Then each at once his falchion drew, 
Each on the ground his scabbard threw, 
Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain, 
As what they ne'er might see again ; 
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, 
In dubious strife they darkly closed. 

XV, 

111 fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
Tliat on the field his targe he threw, '''• 
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide 
Had death so often dash'd aside ; 
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield, 
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 
He practised every pass and ward, 
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ; 
While less expert, though stronger far, 
'J'iie Gael maintain'd unequal war, 
Three times in closing strife they stood, 
And thrice the Saxon's blade drank blood ; 
No stinted draught, no scanty tide. 
The gushing flood the tartans dyed. 
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, 
And shower'd his blows like wintry rain ; 
And, as firm rock, or castle-roof, 
Against the winter shower is proof, 
The foe, invulnerable still, 
Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill ; 
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
And backward borne upon the lea, 
Brought the proud chieftain to his knee. 



XVI, 

" Now, yield thee, or by Him who mada 
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my 

blade ! " 
" Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! 
Let recreant yield, who fears to die," 
— Like adder darting from his coil, 
Like wolf that dashes through the toil, 
Like mountain-cat who guards her young, 
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; 
Received, but reck'd not of a wound, 
And lock'd his arms his foeman round.— 
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own I 
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, 
Through bars of brass and triple steel ! — 
They tug, they strain ! down, down they gOj 
The Gael above, Fitz-James below : 
The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd, 
His knee was planted on his breast ; 
His clotted locks he backward threw, 
Across his brow his hand he drew, 
From blood and mist to clear his sight, 
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright I — 
— But hate and fury ill supplied 
The stream of life's exhausted tide, 
And all too late the advantage came, 
To turn the odds of deadly game ; 
For, while the dagger gleam'd on high, 
Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and eye, 
Down came the blow ! but in the heath 
The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 
The struggling foe may now unclasp 
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; 
Unwounded from the dreadful close, 
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 

XVII. 

He falter'd thanks to Heaven for life, 

Redeem'd, unhoped, from desperate strife ; 

Next on his foe his look he cast. 

Whose every gasp appear'd his last ; 

In Roderick's gore he dipp'd the braid, — 

" Poor Blanche ! thy wrongs are dearly 

paid : 
Yet with thy foe must die or live. 
The praise that Faith and Valor give. 
With that he blew a bugle-note. 
Undid the collar from his throat, 
Unbonneted, and by the wave 
Sate down his brow and hands to lave. 
Then faint afar are heard the feet 
Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet ; 
The sounds increase, and now are seen 
Four mounted squires in Lincoln green: 
Two who bear lance, and two who lead, 
By loosen'd rein, a saddled steed; 



THE LADY OF TFTE LAKE. 



ur 



Each onward held his headlong course, 

And by Fitz-James rein'd up his horse, — 

With wonder vievv'd the bloody spot— 

— " Exclaim not, gallants! question not. — 

You, Herbert and Luffness, alight, 

And bind the wounds of yonder knight ; 

Let the gray palfrey bear his weight, 

We destined for a fairer freight, 

And bring him on to Stirling straight : 

pwill before at. better speed, 

jTo seek fresh horse and fitting weed. 

The sun rides high; — I must be boune,* 

To see the archer-game at noon : 

But lightly Bayard clears the lea, — 

De Vaux and Herries, follow me. 



"* Stand. Bayard, stand ! " — the steed 

obey'd, 
With arching neck and bending head, 
And glancing eye and quivering ear, 
As if he loved his lord to hear. 
No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid, 
No grasp upon the saddle laid, 
But wreath'd his left hand in the mane, 
And lightly bounded from the plain, 
Turn'd on the horse his armed heel, 
And stirr'd his courage with the steel. 
Bounded the fiery steed in air, 
The rider sate erect and fair, 
Then like a bolt from steel crossbow 
Forth launch'd, along the plain they go. 
They dash'd that rapid torrent through, 
And up Carhonie's hill they flew ; 
Still at the gallcp prick'd the Knight, 
His merry men follow'd as they might. 
Along thy banks, swift Teith ! they ride, 
And in th: race they mock'd thy tide ; 
Torry and Lendrick now are past. 
And Deanstown lies behind them cast : 
They rise, tho banner' d towers of Doune, 
They sink in distant woodland soon ; 
31air-Drummond sees the hoof strike fire. 
They sweep like breeze through Ochter- 

tyre ; 
They mark just glance and disappear 
The lofty brow of ancient Kier ; 
They bathe their courser's sweltering sides, 
Dark Forth ! amid thy sluggish tides. 
And on the opposing shore take ground, 
W'ith plash, with scramble, and with 

bound. 
Right-li^nd thev leave thy cliffs, Craig- 

Forth ! 
And soon the bulwark of the North, 



Boune, prepare^ 



Gray Stirling, with her towers and town, 
Upon their fleet career look'd down. 

XIX. 

As up the flinty path they strain'd 
Sudden his steed the leader rein'd ; 
A signal to his squire he flung, 
Who instant to his stirrup sprung : — 
" Seest thou, De Vaux, yon v.-oodsman gray, 
Who town-ward holds the rocky way, 
Of stature tall and poor array ? 
Mark'st thou the firm, yet active stride. 
With which he scales the mountain-side ? 
Know'st thou from whence he comes, ol 

whom ? " — 
" No, by my word ; — a burly groom 
He seems, who in the field or chase 
A baron's train would nobly grace.'' — 
" Out, out, De Vaux ! can fear supply, 
And jealousy, no sharper eye 1 
Afar, ere to the hill he drew. 
That stately form and step I knew ; 
Like form in Scotland is not seen, 
Treads not such step on Scottish green. 
'Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle ! 
The uncle of the banish'd Earl. 
Away, away, to court, to show 
The near approach of dreaded foe : 
The King must stand upon his guard : 
Douglas and he must meet prepared." 
Then right-hand wheel'd their steeds, and 

straight. 
They won the castle's postern gate. 

XX. 

The Douglas, who had bent his way 
From Cambus-Kenneth's abbey gray, 
Now, as he climb'd the rocky shelf, 
Held sad communion with himself ! — 
" Yes, all is true my fears could frame : 
A prisoner lies the noble Graeme, 
And fiery Roderick soon will feel 
The vengeance of the royal steel. 
I, only I, can ward their fate, — 
God grant the ransom come not late ! 
The Abbess hath her promise given, 
My child shall be the bride of Heaven ;~ 
— Be pardon'd one repining tear ! 
For He, who gave her, knows how dear, 
How excellent ! but that is by. 
And now my business is — to die. 
— Ye towers ! within whose circuit dread 
A Douglas by his sovereign bled ; 
And thou, O sad and fatal mound ! * 
That oft hast heard the death-axe sound, 



* A mound on_ the N. E. of Stirling Castk* 
where State criminals were exeouted. 



148 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As on the noblest of the land 

Fell the stern headsman's bloody hand, — 

The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb 

Prepare—for Douglas seeks his doom ! 

—But hark ! what blithe and jolly peal 

Makes the Franciscan steeple reel ? 

An4 see ! upon the crowded street, 

In motley groups what masquers meet ! 

Banner and pageant, pipe and drum, 

And merry morrice-dancers come. 

I guess, by all this quaint array, 

The burghers hold their sports to-day/s 

Ja-nes will be there ; he loves such show, 

Where the good yeoman bends his bow, 

And the tough wrestler foils his foe, 

As well as where, in proud career. 

The high-borne tilter shivers spear. 

I'll follow to the Castle-park, 

And play my prize ;— -King James shall 

mark. 
If age has tamed these sinews stark, 
Whose force so oft, in happier days, 
His boyish wonder loved to praise.'' 

XXI, 

The Castle gates were open flung. 

The quivering drawbridge . rock'd and 

rung. 
And echo'd loud the flinty street 
Beneath the coursers' clattering feet, 
As slowly down the steep descent 
Fair Scotland's King and nobles went, 
While all along the crowded way 
Was jubilee and loud huzza. 
And ever James was bending low, 
To Jiis while jennet's saddle-bow, 
Doffing his cap to city dame. 
Who smiled and blush'd for pride and 

shame. 
And well the simperer might be vain, — 
He chose the fairest of the train. 
Gravely he greets each city sire. 
Commends each pageant's quaint attire, 
Gives to the dancers thanks aloud, 
.A.nd smiles and nods upon the crowd. 
Who rend the heavens with their acclaims, 
''Long live the Commons' King, King 

James ! " 
Ber.ind the King throng'd peer and knight. 
And noble dame and damsel bright. 
Whose fiery steeds ill brook'd the stay 
Of the steep street and crowded way. 
—But in the train you might discern 
Dark lowering brow and visage stern ; 
There nobles mourn'd their pride re- 

strain'd, 
Alitl ths mean burgher's joys disdain'd ; 



And chiefs, vvhc, hostage for their clan, 
Were each from home a banish'd man, 
There thought upon their own gray tower, j 
Their waving woods, their feudal power, i 

And deem'd themselves a shameful part 
Of pageant which they cursed in heart. 



Now, in the Castle-park, drew out 
Their checkor'd bands the joyous rout. 
There morricers, with bell at heel. 
And blade in hand, their mazes wheel, 
But chief, beside the butts, there stand 
Bold Robm Hood ^^ and all his band, — 
Friar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl, 
Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl, 
Maid Marion, fair as ivory bone, 
Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John ; 
Their bugles challenge all that will. 
In archery to prove their skill. 
The Douglas bent a bow of might, — 
His first shaft centred in the white, 
And v.'hen in turn he shot again. 
His second split the first in twain. 
From the King's hand must Douglas take 
A silver dart, the archer's stake ; 
Fondly he watch'd, with watery ej'e. 
Some answering glance of sympathy, — 
No kind emotion made reply ! 
Indifferent as to archer wight. 
The monarch gave the arrow bright. 

XXIII, 

Now, clear the ring ! fui-, hand to hand, 
The manly wrestlers take their stand. 
Two o'er the rest superior rose, 
And proud demanded mightier foes, 
Nor call'd in vain ; for Douglas came. 
— For life is Hugh of Larbert lame ; 
Scarce better John of Alloa's fare, 
Whom senseless home his comrades bear. 
Prize of the wrestling match, the King 
To Douglas gave a golden ring,47 
While coldly glanced his eye of blue. 
As frozen drop of wintry dew. 
Douglas would speak, but in his breast 
His struggling soul his words suppress'd',v 
Indignant then he turn'd him where 
Their arms the brawny yeomen bare. 
To hurl the massive bar in air. 
When each his utmost strength had 

shown. 
The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone 
From its deep bed, then heaved it liagh, 
And sent the fragment through the sky, 
A rood l^eyond the farthest mark ; — 
And still in Stirling's royal park, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



149 



#he gray-hair'd sires, who know the past, 
To strangers point the Douglas-cast, 
And morahze on the decay 
Of ScottisJft strength in modern day. 

XXIV. 

The vale with loud applauses rang, 
The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. 
The King, with look unmoved, bcstow'd 
A purse well fill'd with pieces broad. 
Indignant smiled the Douglas proud, 
And threw the gold among the crowd, 
Who now, with anxious wonder, scan, 
And sharper glance, the dark gray man ; 
Till whispers rose among the throng. 
That heart so free, and hand so strong, 
Must to the Douglas blood belong ; 
The old men mark'd, and shook the head, 
To see his hair with silver spread, 
And wink'd aside, and told each son. 
Of feats upon the English done. 
Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand 
Was exiled from his native land. 
The women praised his stately form. 
Though wreck'd by many a winter's storm ! 
The youth with awe and wonder saw 
His strength surpassing Nature's law. 
Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd. 
Till murmur rose to clamors loud. 
But not a glance from that proud ring 
Of peers who circled round the King, 
With Douglas held communion kind. 
Or call'd the banish'd man to mind ; 
No, not from those who, at the chase. 
Once held his side the honor'd place, 
Begirt his board, and, in th* field, 
Found safety underneath his shield ; 
For he, whom royal eyes disown. 
When was his form to courtiers known ! 

XXV 

The Monarch saw the gambols flag. 
And bade let loose a gallant stag, 
Whose pride, the holiday to crown, 
Two favorite greyhounds should pull 

down. 
That venison free, and Bordeaux wine. 
Might serve the archery to dine. 
But Lufra, — whom from Douglas' side 
Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, 
The fleetest hound in all the North,- 
Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. 
She left the royal hounds mid-way, 
And dashing on the antler'd prey, 
Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank. 
And deep the flowing life-bloocl drank. 
The King's stout huntsman saw the sport 
By stxange intruder broken short, 



Came up, and with his leash unbound, 

In anger struck the noble hound. 

— The Douglas had endured, that morn, 

The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn, 

And last, and worst to spirit proud. 

Had borne the pity of the crowd ; 

But Lufra had been fondly bred. 

To share his board, to watch his bed, 

And oft would Ellen Lufra's neck 

In maiden glee with garlands deck ; 

They were such playmates, that with nam# 

Of Lufra, Ellen's image came. 

His stifled wrath is brimming high, 

In darken'd brow and fl?.shing eye: 

As waves before the bark divide. 

The crowd gave way before his stride ; 

Needs but a buffet and no more, 

The groom lies senseless in his gore. 

Such blow no other h:nd couid deal. 

Though gauntleted in giovo of £tcel. 



Then clamor'd loud ihc royal train. 
And brandish'd swords and staves amain. 
But stern the B".ron's warning — " Back ! 
Back, on your lives, ye menial' pack ' 
Beware the Douglas. — Yes ' behold, 
King James ! the Douglas, doom'd ol old, 
And vainly sought for near and far, 
A victim to atone the war, 
A willing victim, now attends. 
Nor craves thy grace but for his friends."— 
" Thus is my clemency repaid ? 
Presumptuous Lord ! " the monarch said ; 
" Of thy misproud ambitious clan. 
Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the man, 
The only man, in whom a foe 
My woman-mercy would not know : 
But shall a Monarch's presence brook 
Injurious blow, and haughty look ? — 
What ho ! the Captain of our Guard ! 
Give the offender fitting ward, — 
Break off the sports 1 " — for tumult rose, 
And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows, — 
" Break off the sports !" he said, and frown'd, 
" And bid our horsemen clear the ground ", 



Then uproar wild and misarray 
Marr'd the fair form of festal day. 
The horsemen prick'd among the crowd, 
Repell'd by threats and insult loud ; 
To earth are borne the old and weak. 
The timorous fly, the women shriek ; 
With flint, with shaft, with staff, with bai. 
The hardier urge tumultuous war. 



=5<^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



At once round Douglas darkly sweep 
The royal spears in circle deep, 
And slowly scale the pathway steep ; 
While on the rear in thunder pour 
The rabble with disorder'd roar. 
With grief the noble Douglas saw 
The Commons rise against the law, 
And to the leading soldier said, — 
" Sir John of Hyndford ! 'twas my blade 
,That knighthood on thy shoulder laid ; 
(For that good deed, permit me then 
A word with these misguided men. 

XXVIII. 

" Hear, gentle friends ! ere yet for me 

Ye break the bands of fealty. 

My life, my honor, and my cause, 

I tender free to Scotland's laws. 

Are these so weak as must require 

The aid of your misguided ire ! 

Or, if I suffer causeless wrong, 

Is then my selfish rage so strong, 

My sense of public weal so low. 

That, for mean vengeance on a foe, 

Those cords of love I should unbind. 

Which knit my country and my kind ? 

Oh no ! Believe, in yonder tower 

It will not soothe my captive hour. 

To know those spears our foes should 

dread. 
For me in kindred gore are red ; 
To know, in fruitless brawl begun, 
For me, that mother wails her son ; 
For me, that widow's mate expires ; 
For me, that orphans weep their sires , 
That patriots mourn insulted laws ; 
And curse the Douglas for the cause. 
let your patience ward such ill. 
And keep your" right to love me still ! " 



The crowd's wild fury sunK again 
In tears, as vempests melt in rain. 
With lifted hands and eyes, they pray'd 
For blessings on his generous head, 
Who for his country felt alone, 
And prized her blood beyond his own. 
Old men, upon the verge of life, 
Blcss'd him who staid the civil strife ; 
And mothers held their babes on high. 
The self-devoted Chief to spy. 
Triumphant over wrongs and ire. 
To whom the prattlers owed a sire : 
Even the rough soldier's heart was moved 
As if behind some bier beloved, 
With trailing arms and drooping head, 
Tlie Douglas up the hill he led, 



And at the Castle's battled verge 
With sighs resign'd his honor'd charge. 

XXX, 

The offended Monarch rode apart, 
With bitter thought and swelling heart, 
And would not now vouchsafe again 
Through Stirling streets to lead his train. 
" O Lennox, who would wish to rule 
This changeling crowd, this common fool .' 
Hear'st thou,'' he said, " the loud acclaim, 
With which they shout the Douglas name! 
With like acclaim, the vulgar throat 
Strain' d for King James their morning 

note ; 
With like acclaim they hail'd the day 
When first I broke the Douglas' sway ; 
And like acclaim would Douglas greet, 
If he could hurl me from my seat. 
Who o'er the herd would wish to reign, 
Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain ! 
Vain as the leaf upon the stream. 
And fickle as a changeful dream ; 
Fantastic as a woman's mood. 
And fierce as Frenzy's fever'd blood- 
Thou many-headed monster-thing, 
O who would wish to be thy king ! 



" But soft ! what messenger of speed 

Spurs hitherward his panting steed .? 

I guess his cognizance afar — 

What from our cousin, John of Mar?" 

" He prays, my liege, your sports keep 

bound 
Within the safe and guarded ground : 
For some foul purpose yet unknown,— 
Most sure for evil to the throne, — 
The outlaw'd Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
Has summon'd his rebellious crew ; 
'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid 
These loose banditti stand array'd. 
The Earl of Mar, this morn, from Doune^ 
To break their muster march'd, and soon 
Your grace will hear of battle fought ; 
But earnestly the Earl besought, 
Till for such danger he provide. 
With scanty train you will not ride."— 

XXXII. 

" Thou warn'st me I have done amiss,— 
I should have earlier look'd to tliis : 
I lost it in this bustling day. 
— Retrace with speed thy former way ; 
Spare not for spoiling of thy steed, 
The best of mine shall be thy meed. 
Say to our faithful Lord of Mar, 
We do forbid the intended war : 



II 



J 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



IS» 



Roderick, this morn, in single fight, 
Was made our prisoner by a knight ; 
And Douglas hath himself and cause 
Submitted to our kingdom's laws. 
The tidings of their leaders lost 
"Will soon dissolve the mountain host, 
Nor would we that the vulgar feel, 
For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel. 
Bear Mar our message, Braco : fly ! " — 
He turn'd his steed, — " My liege, I hie.— 
Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn, 
I fear the broadswords will be drawn." 
The turf the flying courser spurn'd, 
And to his towers the King rcturn'd. 



Ill with King James's mood that day 
Suited gay feast' and min&trel lay ; 
Soon were dismiss'd the courtly throng, 
And soon cut short the festal song. 
Nor less upon the sadden'd town 
The evening sunk in sorrow down. 
The burghers spoke of civil jar. 
Of rumor'd feuds and mountain war, 
Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, 
All up in arms : — the Douglas too, 
They mourn'd iiim pent within the hold, 
" Where stout Earl William was of old '' *- 
And there his word the speaker staid, 
And linger on his lip he laid, 
Or pointed to his dagger blade. 
But jaded horsemen, from the west, 
At evening to the Castle press'd; 
Ind busy talkers said they bore 
Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore ; 
At noon the deadly fray begun. 
And lasted till the set of sun. 
Thus giddy rumor shook the town, 
Till closed the Night her pennons brown. 



CANTO SIXTH. 

THE GUARD-ROOM. 
I. 

The sun, awakening, through the smoky 
air 
Of the dark city casts a sullen glance, 
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, 

Of sinful man the sad inheritance ; 
Summoning revellers from the lagging 
dance, 
Scaring the prowling robber to his den ; 



* He had been stabbed by James II. in Stir- 
lins Castle. 



Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance, 
And warning student pale to leave his 

pen. 
And >ield his di'owsyeyes to the kind nurse 

of nien. 

What various scenes, and, O ! what scenes 
of woe, 
Are witness'd by that red and struggHng 
beam ! 
The fever'd patient, from his pallet low. 
Through crowded hospital beholds it 
stream ; 
The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam, 
The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and 
jail. 
The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting 
dream ; 
The wakeful mother, by the glimmering 
pale, 
Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes 
his feeble wail. 

II. 

At dawn the towers of Stirling rang 
With soldier-step and weapon-clang, 
While drums, with rolling note, foretell 
Relief to weary sentinel. 
Through narrow loop and casement barr'd, 
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, 
And, struggling with the smoky air, 
Deaden'd the torches' yellow glare. 
In comfortless alliance shone 
The lights through arch of blacken'd stone, 
And show'd wild shapes in garb of war, 
Faces deform'd with beard and scar, 
All haggard from the midnight watch, 
And fever'd with the stern debauch ; 
For the oak table's massive board, 
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, 
And beakers drain'd, and cups o'erthrown, 
Show'd in what sport the night had flown. 
Some, weary, snored on floor and bench, 
Some labor'd still their thirst to quench ; 
Some, chill'd with watching, spread their 
hands * 

O'er the huge chimney's dying brands, 
While round them, or beside them flung, 
At every step their harness rung. 



These drew not for their fields the sword, 
Like tenants of a feudal lord. 
Nor own'd the patriarchal claim 
Of chieftain in their leader's name ; 
Adventurers they, from far who roved, 
To live by battle which they loved.'*^ 



^5^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



There the Italian's clouded face ; 

The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace ; 

The mountain-loving Switzer there 

More freely breathed in mountain air ; 

The Fleming there despised the soil. 

That paid so ill the laborer's toil ; 

Their rolls show'd French and German 

name ; 
And merry England's exiles came, 
To share, with ill conceal'd disdain, 
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain. 
All brave in arms, well train'd to wield 
The heavy halberd, brand, and shield ; 
In camps licentious, wild, and bold; 
In pillage fierce and uncontroll'd; 
And now, by holytide and feast, 
From rules of discipline released. 

IV. 

They held debate of bloody fray, 
Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray, 
Fierce was their speech, and, 'mid their 

words, 
Their hands oft grappled to their swords ; 
Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear 
Of wounded comrades groaning near, 
Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored, 
.Bore token of the mountain sv/ord, 
Though, neighboring to the Court of 

Guard, 
Their prayers and feverish wails were heard I 
Sad burden to the ruffian joke, 
And savage oath by fury spoke ! — 
At length up-started John of Brent, 
A yeoman from the banks of Trent 
A stranger to respect or fear, 
In peace a chaser of the deer, 
In host a hardy mutineer, 
But still the boldest of the crew, 
When deed of danger was to do. 
He grieved, that day, their games cut short. 
And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport, 
And shouted loud, " Renew the bowl ! 
And, while a merry catch I troll. 
Let each the buxom chorus bear, 
Like brethren of the brand and spear," 

V. 

soldier's song. 

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and 
Poule 

Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny 
brown bowl, 

That there's wrath and despair in the bon- 
ny black-jack, 

And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of 
sack ; 



Yet whoop, Barnaby ! off with thy liquor, 
Drink upsees * out, and a fig for the vicar ! 

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip * I 

The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, 1 1 
Says, that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchiet 

so sly. 
And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry 

black eye. 
Yet whoop, Jack ! kiss Gillian the quicker, 
Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for ths 

vicar 1 

Our vicar thus preaches — and why should 

he not ? 
For the dues of his cure are the placket and 

pot 
And 'tis right of his office- poor laymen to 

lurch, 
Who infringe the domains of our good 

Mother Church. 
Yet whoop, bully-boys ! off with your 

liquor. 
Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the 

vicar 1 

VI. 

The warder's challenge, heard without, 

Staid in mid-roar the merry shout. 

A soldier to the portal went, — 

" Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent ; 

And, — beat for jubilee the dium ! 

A maid and minstrel with him come." 

Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr'd, 

Was entering now the Court of Guard, 

A harper with him, and in plaid 

All muffled close, a mountain maid. 

Who backward shrunk to 'scape the vieMf 

Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 

" What news ? " they roar'd : — " I only 

know. 
From noon till eve we fought with foe. 
As wild and as uiitameable 
As the rude mountains where they dwell ; 
On both sides store of blood is lost. 
Nor much success can either boast." 
" But whence thy captives, friend ? suck 

spoil 
As theirs must needs reward thy toil. 
Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp; 
Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp ! 
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, 
The leader of a juggler band.'' *9 

VII. 

" No, comrade ; — no such forjtune mine. 
After the fight these sought our line, 

• A Dutch health, or drinking word* 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



153 



That aged harper and the girl, 

And, having audience of the Earl, 

Mar bade I should jjurvey them steed, 

And bring them hitherward with speed. 

Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, 

Nor none shall do them shame or harm." — 

" Hear ye his boast ? " cried John of Brent, 

Ever to strife and jangling bent ; 

" Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, 

And yet the jealous niggard grudge 

To pay the forester his fee ? 

I'll have my share, howe'er it be. 

Despite ^i Moray, Mar, or thee." 

Bertram his forward step withstood ; 

And, burning with his vengeful mood, 

Old Allan, though unfit for strife, 

Laid hand upon his dagger-knife ; 

But EUen boldly stepp'd between, 

And dropp'd at once the tartan screen : — 

So, from his morning cloud, appears 

The sun of May, through summer tears. 

The savage soldiery, amazed. 

As on descended angel gazed ; 

Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed, 

Stood half admiring, half ashamed. 



Boldly she spoke, — " Soldiers, attend I 

My father was the soldier's friend ; 

Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led, 

And with him in the battle bled. 

Not from the valiant, or the strong. 

Should exile's daughter suffer wrong."- 

Answer'd De Brent, most forward still 

In every feat or good or ill, — • 

" I shame me of the part I play'd : 

And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid ! 

An outlaw I by forest laws. 

And merry Needwood knows the cause. 

Poor Rose, — if Rose be living no\*," — 

He wiped his iron eye and brow, — 

" Must bear such age, I think, as thou.- 

Hear ye, my mates ; I go to call 

The Captain of our watch to hall : 

There lies my halberd on the floor ; 

And he that steps my halberd o'er, 

To do the maid injurious part. 

My shaft shall quiver in his heart! — 

Beware loose speech, or jesting rough :- 

Ye all know John de Brent. Enough." 

IX. 

Their Captain came, a gallant young, — 
(Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,) 
Nor v;ore he yet the spurs of knight ; 
Gay was his mien, his humor light, 
And, though by courtesy controU'd, 
Forward his speech, his' bearing bold. 



The high-born maiden ill could brook 

The scanning of his curious look 

And dauntless eye ; — and yet, in sooth, 

Young Lewis was a generous you.th ; 

But Ellen's lovely face and mien, 

111 suited to the garb and scene, 

Might lightly bear construction strange. 

And give loose fancy scope to range. 

" Welcome to Stirling towers, fairnijad I 

Come ye to seek a champion's aid. 

On palfrey white, with harper hoar. 

Like errant damosel of yore .? 

Does thy high quest a knight require. 

Or may the venture suit a squire ? " 

Her dark eye flash'd ; — she paused and 

sigh'd,— 
" O what have I to do with pride ! 
Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and 

strife, 
A suppliant for a father's life, 
I crave an audience of the King. 
Behold, to back my suit, a ring, 
The royal pledge of grateful claims, 
Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James." 

X. 

The signet-ring young Lewis took, 

With deep respect and alter'd look ; 

And said, — " This ring our duties own ; 

And pardon, if to worth unknown, 

In semblance mean obscurely veil'd, 

Lady, in aught my folly fail'd. 

Soon as the day flings wide his gates. 

The King shall know what suitor waits.. 

Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower 

Repose you till his waking hour ; 

Female attendance shall obey 

Your best, for service or array. 

Permit I marshal you the way." 

But, ere she follow'd, with the grace 

And open bounty of her race. 

She bid her slender purse be shared 

Among the soldiers of the guard. 

The rest with thanks their guerdon took; 

But Brent, with shy and awkward look. 

On the reluctant maiden's hold 

Forced bluntly back the proffer'd gold ; — - 

" Forgive a haughty English heart, 

And 6 forget its ruder part ! 

The vacant purse shall be my share, 

Which in my barret-cap I'll bear, 

Perchance, in jeopardy of war, 

Where gayer crests may keep afar." 

With thanks — 'twas all she could — th« 

maid 
His rugged courtesy repaid. 



154 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When Ellen forth with Lewis went, 
Allan made suit to John of Brent :— 
" My lady safe, O let your grace 
Give me to see my master's face ! 
His minstrel I, — to share his doom 
Bound from the cradle to the tomb. 
Tenth in descent, since first my sires 
Waked for his noble house their lyres, 
Nor one of all the race was known 
But prized its weal above their own. 
With the Chief's birth begins our care ; 
Our harp must soothe the infant heir, 
Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace 
His earliest feat of field or chase ; 
In peace, in war, our rank we keep, 
We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, 
Nor leave him till we pour our verse — 
A doleful tribute! — o'er his hearse. 
Then let me share his captive lot ; 
It is my right — deny it not ! " — 
" Little we reck,'' said John of Brent, 
" We Southern men of long descent ; 
Nor wot we how a name — a word — 
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord : 
Yet kind my noble landlord's part, — 
God bless the house of Beaudesert ! 
And, but I loved to drive the deer, 
More than to guide the laboring steer, 
I had not dwelt an outcast here. 
Come, good old Minstrel, follow me ; 
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see." 

XII. 

Then, from a rusted iron hook, 

A bunch of ponderous keys he took, 

Lighted a torch, and Allan led 

Through grated arch and passage dread. 

Portals they pass'd, where, deep within, 

Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din ; 

Through rugged vaults, where, loosely 

stored. 
Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's 

sword. 
And many an hideous engine grim, 
For wrenching joint, and crushing limb. 
By artist form'd, who deem'd it shame 
And sin to give their work a name. 
They halted at a low-brow'd porch, 
And Brent to Allan gave the torch, 
While bolt and chain he backward roU'd, 
And made the bar unhasp its hold. 
They enter'd : — 'twas a prison-room 
Of stern security and gloom, 
Yet not a dungeon ; for the day 
Through lofty gratings found its way, 



A nd rude and antique garniture 

Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor ; 

Such as the rugged days of old 

Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold. 

" Here," said De Brent, " thou mayst re 

main 
Till the Leech visit him again. 
Strict is his charge, the warders tell, 
To tend the noble prisoner well." 
Retiring then, the bolt he drew. 
And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew. 
Roused at the sound, from lowly bed 
A captive feebly raised his head ; 
The v/ondering Minstrel look'd, and 

knew — 
Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu ! 
For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, 
They, erring, deem'd the Chief he sought. 

XIII. 

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore 

Shall never stem the billows more, 

Deserted by her gallant band. 

Amid the breakers lies astrand, — • , 

So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu ! 

And oft his fever' d limbs he threw 

In toss abrupt, as when her sides 

Lie rocking in the advancing tides, 

That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, 

Yet cannot heave her from her seat ; — 

O ! how unlike her course absea ! 

Or his free step on hill and lea !— • 

Soon as the Minstrel he could scan, 

" What of thy lady ? — of my clan .? — 

My mother?— Douglas ? — tell me all ! • 

Have they been ruin'd in my fall ? 

Ah, yes ! or wherefore art thou here ? 

Yet speak, — speak boldly, — do not fear."— 

(For Allan, who his mood well knew, 

Was choked with grief and terror too.)— 

" Who fought — who fled .'' — Old man, be 

brief ; — 
Some might — for they had lost their Chiesf 
Who basely live ? — who bravely died ? "- - 
" O calm thee, Chief 1" the Minstrel cried, 
"Ellen is safe!"— "For that, thanV 

Heaven ! '' — 
" And hopes are for the Douglas given ;- 
The Lady Margaret, too, is well ; 
And, for thy clan, — on field or fell, 
Has never harp of minstrel told. 
Of combat fought so true and bold. 
Thy stately Pine is yet unbent, 
Though many a goodly bough is rent." 

XIV. 
The Chieftain rear'd his form on high, 
And fever's fire was in his eye; 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



155 



But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 
Checkcr'd his swarthy brow and cheeks. 
— " Hark, Mmstrel ! 1 have heard thee 

play, 
With measure bold, on festal day, 
In yon lone isle, . . . again where ne'er 
Shall harper play, or warrior hear I . . . 
That stirring air that peals on high, 
O'ei" Dermid's race our victory. — 
Strike it I 5o_and then, (for well thpu 

canst,) • 

Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced, 
Fling me the picture of the fight, 
\Vhc?n met my clan the Saxon might, 
rU listen, till my fancy hears 
The clang of sv/ords, the crash of spears ! 
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then. 
For the fair field of fighting men, 
And my free spirit burst away, 
As if It soar'd from, battle fray." 
The trembling Bard with awe obey'd,— 
Slow on the harp his hand he laid ; 
But soon remembrance of the sight 
He witness'd from the mountain's height, 
With what old Bertram, told at night, 
A waken 'd the full power of song, 
And bore him in career along ; — 
As shallop launch'd on river's tide, 
That slow and fearful leaves the side, 
But, when it feels the middle stream, 
Drives downward swift as lightning's beam. 



XV. 

BATTLE OF BSAL' AN DUINE.^* 

" The Minstrel camv-* once more to view 
The eastern ridg; of Benvenue, 
For, ere he parted, he would say 
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray— 
Where shall he find, in foreign land, 
So lone a lake, s j sweet a strand ! 
There is no breeze upon the fern, 

Nor ripple on the lake. 
Upon her eyry nods the erne, 

The deer has sought the brake; 
The small birds will not sing aloud, 

The springing ti-out lies still, 
5o darkly glooms yon thunder cloud. 
That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 

Benledi's distant hill. 
Is it the thunder's solemn sound 
That mutters deep and dread, 
Or echoes from the gjpaning ground 
The warrior's measured tread ? 



Is it the lightning's quivering glance 
That on the thicket streams, 

Or do they fiash on spear and lance 
The sun's retiring beams .'' 
— I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
I see the Moray's silver star. 
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon v.-ar, 
That up the lake comes winding far I 
To hero bound for battle-strife. 

Or bard of martial lay, 
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, 

One glance at their array I 

XVI. 

" Their liglit-arm'd archers far and near 

Survey'd the tangled ground. 
Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, 

A twilight forest frown'd, 
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear, 

The stern battalia crown'd. 
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang. 

Still w€re the pipe and drum ; 
Save heavy tread, and armor's c'iang, 

The sullen march was dumb. 
There breathed no wind their crests to 
shake, 
Or wave their flags abroad ; 
Scarce tlie frail aspen seem'd to quake, 

That shadow' d o'er thei^- road. 
Their vawatdecnuts no tidings bring, 

Can rouse no lurking foe, 
Nor spy a trace of living thing, 

Save when they stirr'd the roe ; 
The host moves like a deep-sea wave, 
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, 
High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain 
A narrow and a brokerrplain, 
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws ; 
And here the horse and spearmen pause, 
While to exolore the dangerous glen. 
Dive through -Jie pass the archer-men. 



" At once there rose so wild a yell 
Within that dark and narrow dell. 
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, 
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell 1 
Forth from the pass in tumult driven, 
Like chaff before the wind of heaven, 

The archery appear, 
For life ! for life I their plight they ply- 
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, 
And plaids and bonnets waving high, 
And broadswords flashing to the sky, 
Are maddening in the rear. 



156 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Oikward they drive, in dreadful race, 

Pursuers and pursued ; 
Before that tide of flight and chase, 
How shall it keep its rooted place. 

The spearmen's twilight wood ? — 
' Down, down,' cried Mar, ' your lances 
down I 

Bear back both friend and foe !' — 
Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
That serried grove of lances brown 

At once lay levell'd low ; 
And closely shouldering side to side. 
The bristling ranks the onset bide. — 
' We'll quell the savage mountaineer, 

As their Tinchel * cows the game ! 
They come as fleet as forest deer. 

We'll drive them back as tame.' — 

XVIII. 

" Bearing before them, in their course. 
The relics of the archer force. 
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, 
Right onward did Cian-Alpine come. 
Above the tide, each broadsword bright 
Was brandishmg hke beam of light, 

Each targe was dark below ; 
And with the ocean's mighty swing, 
■"^^hen heaving to the tempest's wing, 
lugy hurl'd them on the foe. 
I heard the Vice's shivering crash, 
As when the whirlwind rends the ash, 
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, 
As if an hundred anvils rang ! 

But Moray wheel'd his rearward rank 
Of horsem.en on Clan-Alpine's flank, 

— ' My banner-man, advance ! 
I see,' he cried, ' their column shake. — 
Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake 

Upon them with the lance! ' — 
The horsemen dash'd among the rout, 

As deer break through the broom ; 
Their steeds are stout, their swords are 
out. 
They soon make lightsome room. 
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne — 

Where, where was Roderick then! 
,0ns blast upon his bugle-horn 

Were worth a thousand men! 
And refluent through the pass of fear 

The battle's tide was pour'd ; 
Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear, 
Vanish'd the mountain-sword. 



* A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding 
a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought 
immense quantities of deer together, which 
usually made desperate efforts to bleak through 
he TiiicheL 



As Brackllnn's chasm, so black and steep, 

Receives her roaring linn. 
As the dark caverns of the deep 
Suck the wild whirlpool in, 
So did the deep and darksome pass 
Devour the battle's mingled mass : 
None linger now upon the plain. 
Save those who ne'er shall fi^ht acrain. 



" Now westward roils the battle's din, 
That deep and doubling pass within, 
— Minstrel, away, the work of fate 
Is bearing on : its issue wait, 
Where the rude Trosach's dread defila 
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. — 
Gray Benvenue I soon repass'd. 
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. 

The sun is set ; — the clouds are met, 
The lowering scowl of heaven 

An inky view of vivid blue 
To the deep lake has given ; 
Strange gusts of wind from mountain-glen 
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen. 
I heeded not the eddying surge, 
Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge, 
Mine ear but heard the sullen sound, 
Which like an earthquake shook tha 

ground, 
And spoke the stern and desperate strife 
That parts not but with parting life, 
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll 
Tlie dirge of many a passing soul. 
Nearer it comes — the dim-wood glen 
The martial flood disgorged agen, 

But not in mingled tide ; 
The plaided warriors of the North 
High on the mountain thunder forth 

And overhang its side ; 
While by t!ie lake below appears 
The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. 
At weary bay each shatter'd band, 
Ej'eing their foemen, sternly stand ; 
Their banners stream like tattcr'd sail, 
That flings its fragments to the gale, 
And broken arms and disarray 
Mark'd the fell havoc of the day 



" Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, 
The Saxon stood in sullen trance. 
Till Moray pointed with his lance. 

And cried — ' Behold yon isle ! — 
See! none are left to guard its strand, 
But women weak, that wring the hand : 
'Tis there of yore tift robber band 

Their booty wont to pile ; 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



^57 



My purse, with bonnet pieces store, 
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er, 
And loose a shallop from the shore. 
Lightly we'll tame tlie war-wolf then. 
Lords of his mate, and brood and den.' 
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung, 
On earth his casque and corslet rung, 

He plunged him in the wave : — 
All saw the deed — the purpose knew. 
And to their clamors lienvenue 

A mingled echo gave ; 
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, 
The helpless females scream for fear, 
And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven, 
Pour'd down at once the lowering heaven; 
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, 
Her billows rear'cl their snowy crest. 
Well for the swimmer swell'd they high, 
To mai^the Highland marksman's eye ; 
For round him shower'd, 'mid rain and 

hail, 
The vengeful arrows of the Gael. — 
In vain — He ncars the isle — and lo! 
His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
— Just then a flash of lightning came, 
It tinged the waves and .strand with 

flame ! — 
I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame, 
Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand : 
It darken' d, — but amid the mean 
Of waves, I heard a dying groan ; 
Another flash ! — the spearman floats 
A weltering corse beside the boats, 
And the stern matron o'er him stood, 
Her hand and dagger streaming blood. 



" ' Revenge! revenge! ' the Saxons cried. 

The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 

Despite the elemental rage, 

Again they hurried to engage ; 

But, ere they closed in desperate fight, 

Bloody with spurring came a knight, 

Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag, 

Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. 

Clarion and trumpet by his side 

Rung forth a Iruce-note high and wide. 

While, in the Monarcii's name, afar 

An herald's voice forbade the war. 

For Bothvvell's lord, and Roderick bold. 

Were both, he said, in captive h.f.Id." 

—But liere the lay made sudden stand ! — 

Tlie liarp escaped tho Minstrel's hand !— 

Oft had he stolen a glj^ce, to spy 

How Roderick brook'd liib minstrelsy : 



At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, 

With lifted hand kept feeble time ; 

That motion ceased, — yet feeling strong, 

Varied his look as changed the song; 

At length, no more his deafen'd ear 

The minstrel melody can hear; 

His face grows sharp, — his hands are 

clcnch'd, 
As if some pang his heart-strings wrench'd* 
Set are his teeth, his fading eye 
Is ster.ily fix'd on vacancy , 
Thus motionless, and moanless, drew 
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu I— 
Old Allan-Bane look'd on aghast, 
While grim and still his spirit pass'd: 
But w^en he sav/ that life was fled. 
He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead. 

XXII. 
L.\MENT. 

" And art thou cold and lowly laid. 
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, 
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade I 
For thee shall none a requiem say ? 
— For thee, — who loved tlie minstrel's lay, 
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, 
The shelter of her exiled fine, 
E'en in this prison-house of thine, 
I'll wail for Alpine's honor'd Pine! 
" What groans shall yonder valleys fill I 
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill ! 
What tears of burning rage shall thrill, 
Wlian mourns thy tribe thy battles done, 
Thy fall before the race was won, 
The sword ungirt ere set of sun ! 
There breathes not clansman of thy line, 
But would have given his life for thine. — 
O woe for Alpine's honor'd Pine! — 
" Sad was thy lot on mortal stage ! — 
The captive thrush may brook the cage, 
The prison'd eagle dies for rage. 
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain ! 
And, when its notes awake again, 
Even she, so long beloved in vain. 
Shall with my harp her voice combine. 
And mix her woe and tears with mine;, 
To wail Clan-Alpine's honor'd Pine." 

XXIII. 
Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, 
Remain'd in lordly bower apart. 
Where play'd with many-color'd gleams. 
Through stoned pane the rising beams. 
In vain on gilded roof they fall. 
And lighten'd up a tapestried wall, 
And for her use a menial train 
A rich collation spread in vain. 



158 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The banquet proud, the chamber gay, 
Scarce drew one curious glance astray ; 
Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say, 
With better omen dawn'd the day 
In that lone isle, where waved on high 
The dun-deer's hide for canopy ; 
Where of* her noble father shared 
The simple meal her care prepared, 
While Lufra, crouching by her side, 
Her station claim'd with jealous pride, 
And Douglas, bent on woodland game, 
Spoke of the cliase to Malcolm Graeme, 
Whose answer, oft at random made, 
The wandering of his tlioughts betray'd.— 
Those who such simple joys have knov/n, 
Are taught to prize them when «they' 

gone. 
But sudden, see, she lifts her head ! 
The window seeks with cautious tread. 
What distant music has the power 
To win her in this v;oeful hour! 
'Twas from a turret that o'erhung 
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung. 



LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN. 

" My hawk is tired of perch and hood, 
My idle greyhound loathes his food. 
My horse is weary of his stall, 
And I am sick of captive thrall. 
I wish I were, as I have been. 
Hunting the hart in. forest green. 
With bended bow and bloodhound free, 
For that's the life is meet for me. 
I hate to learn tlie ebb of time, 
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, 
Or mark it as the sunbeams cravv'l, 
Inch after inch along the wall. 
The lark was wont my matins ring, 
The sable rook my vespers sing. 
These towers, although a king's they be, 
Have not a hall of joy for me. 
No more at dawning morn I rise. 
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes. 
Drive the fleet deer the forest through. 
And homeward wend with evening dew; 
A blithesome welcome blithely meet. 
And lay my trophies at her feet. 
While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
That life is lost to love and me 1 " 



The heart-sick lay was hardly said. 
The list'ner had not turn'd her head, 
It trickled still, the starting tear, 
When light a footstep struck her ear, 
And Snowdoun's graceful knight was «ear. 



She turn'd the hastier, lest again 

The prisoner should renew his strain. — 

" O welcome, brave Fitz-James 1 " she said. 

" How may an almost orphan maid 

Pay the deep debt " — " O say not so 1 

To me no gratitude you owe. 

Not mine, alas ! the boon to give, 

And bid thy noble father live ; 

1 can but be thy guide, sweet maid, 

With Scotland's king thy suit to aid. 

No tyrant he, though ire and pride 

May lay his better mood aside. 

Come, Ellen, come ! 'tis more than tim^ 

He holds his court at morning prime." 

Witli beating heart, and bosom wrung, 

As to a brother's arm she clung. 

Gently he dried the falling tear. 

And gently whisper'd hope and cheer; 

Her faltering steps half led, half staid, 

Through gallery fair, and high arcade, 

Till, at his touch, its wings of pride 

A portal arch unfolded wide. 

XXVI. 

V/ithin 'twas brilliant all and light, 
A thronging scene of figures bright ; 
It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight. 
As when the setting sun has given 
Ten thousand hues to summer even, 
And from their tissue, fancy frames 
Aerial knights and fairy dames. 
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid ; 
A few faint steps she forward made, 
Then slow her drooping head she raised, 
And fearful round the presence gazed 
For him she sought, who own'd this state, 
The dreaded prince whose will was fate. 
She gazed on many a princely port, 
Might well have ruled a royal court; 
On many a splendid garb siie gazed. 
Then turn'd bawilder'd and amazed, 
For all stood bare; and, in the room, 
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. 
To him each lady's look was lent ; 
On him each courtier's eye was bent ; 
Midst furs and silks, and jewels sheen, 
He stood, in simple Lincoln green. 
The centre of the glittering ring, — 
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland^ 
King.s^ 

XXVII. 

As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast, 

Slides from the rock that gave it rest, 

Poor Ellen glided from her stay. 

And at the Monarch's feet sIid lay ; 

No word her choldng voice commands, — 

She show'd the ring, slie clasp'd her hands. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



159 



O ! not a moment could he brook, 

The generous prince, chat suppliant look ! 

Gently he raised her; and, the while, 

Check'd with a glance the circle's smile ; 

Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd, 

And bade her terrors be dismiss'd : — 

•* Yes, Fair : the wandering poor Fitz- 

James 
Tlie fealty of Scotland claims. 
To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring ; 
He will redeem his signet-ring. 
Ask nought for Douglas ; yester even, 
His prince and he have much forgiven. 

Wrong hath he had from slanderous 
tongue, 

I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. 

We would not, to the vulgar crowd. 

Yield what they craved with clamor loud ; 

Calmly we heard and judged his cause, 

Our council aided, and our laws. 

I stanch' d thy father's death-feud stern, 

With stout De Vaux and Grey Glencairn-, 

And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own 

The friend and bulwark of our Throne. 

But, lovely infidel, how now ? 

What clouds thy misbelieving brow ? 

Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid ; 

Thou must confirm this doubting maid." 

XXVIII. 

Then forth tlie noble Douglas sprung, 
And on his neck his daughter hung. 
The Monaixh drank, that happy hour, 
The sweetest, holiest, draught of Power, — 
When it can say, with godlike voice, 
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice ! 
Yet would not James the general eye 
On Nature's raptures long should pry , 
He stepp'd between — " Nay, Douglas, 

nay. 
Steal not .nny proselyte av/ay ! 
The riddle 'tis my right to read, 
That brought this happy chance to speed. 
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray 
In life's more low but happier way, 
'Tis under n.-me which veils my power. 
Nor falsely veils — for Stirling's tower 
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,^^ 
And Normans call me James Fitz-James. 
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws, 
Thus learn to right the injured cause." — 
Then, in a tone apart and low, — 
" Ah, little traitress ! none must know 
What idle dream, what lighter thought. 
What vanity full dearly bought, 

ioin'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew 
ly spell-bound step* to Benvenue, 



In dangerous hour, and all but gave 
Thy Monarch s hfe to mountain glaive ! " 
Aloud he spoke — " Thou still dost hold 
That little talisman of gold, 
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring — 
What seeks fair Ellen of the King ? " 

XXIX. 

Full wen the conscious maiden guess'd 
He probed the weakness of her breast ; 
But, with that consciousness, there came 
A lightening of her fears for (iraeme. 
And more she deem'd the Monarch's ire 
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire. 
Rebellious bioadsword boldly drew ; 
And, to her generous feeling true. 
She craved the grace of Roderick Dim. 
" Forbear thy suit : — the King of Kings 
Alone can stay life's parting wings. 
I know his heart, 1 know his hand, 
Have shared his cheer, and proved iiis 

brand : — 
My fairest earldom would I give 
To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live 1 
Hast thou no other boon to crave 1 
No other captive friend to save 1 " 
Blushing, she turn'd her from the King, 
And to the Douglas gave the ring, 
As if she wish'd her sire to speak 
The suit th?t stain'd her glowing cheek. — • 
'' Nay, then, jny pledge has lost its force, 
And stubborn justice holds her course. — 
Malcolm, come forth 1 " — And, at the word, 
Down kneel'd the Graeme to Scotland's 

Lord. 
" For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, 
From thee may Vengeance claim her dues, 
Who, nurtured underneath our smile. 
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile. 
And sought amid thy faithful clan, 
A refuge for an outlaw'd man, 
Dishonoring thus thy loyal name. — 
Fetters and warder for the Gr?eme ! ' 
His chain of gold the King unstrung, 
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he fiung, 
Then gently drew the glittering band, 
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. 



Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills 
grow dark, 
On purple peaks a deeper shade descend- 
ing ; 
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her 
spark. 
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert 
wending. 



i6o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain lend- 
ing, 
And the wild breeze, thy wilder min- 
strelsy j 
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers 
blending, 
With distant echo from the fold and lea, 
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of 
housing bee. 

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel 
har]:> ! 
Yet, irnce again, forgive n^y feeble sway, 
And little reck 1 of the censure sliarp 

May idly cavil at an idle lay. 
Much liave I owed thy strains on life's long 
way, 
Through secret woes the world has never 
known, 
Wh-sn on the weary night dawn'd wearier 
day, 



And bitterer was the grief devour'd 
alone. 
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress ! is 
thine own. 

Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, 
.Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy 
string ! 
'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of 

'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic win^- 
Receding now, tlie dying numbers ring 
Fainter and fainter down the rugged 
dell, 
And now the mountain breezes scarcely 
bring 
A wandering witch-note of the distant 
spell — 
And now, 'tis silent all !— Enchantress, fare 
thee well I 



THE 

VISION OF DON RODERICK 



JOHN WHIT MORE, ESQ. 

AND TO THK COMMITTEE OF SUESCRIEERS FOR RELIEF OF THE PORTUGUESE 

SUFFERERS IN WHICH HE PRESIDES, 

THIS POEM, 

(THIS VISION OF DON RODERICK,) , 

COMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT, IS 
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BV 

WALTER SCOTT. 



frtfaa. 



The following Poem is founded upon a Spanish Tradition, particularly detailed in the 
Notes; but bearing, in getter al, that Don Roderick, the last Gothic King of Spain, -when the 
Invasion of the Moors was impending, had the temerity to descend into an aticient vault near 
Toledo, the opening of which had beett denounced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. The 
legend adds, that his rash curiosity was tnortified by an emblematical representation of 
those Saracens who in the year 714, defeated hitn iti battle, and reduced Spain under their 
dominion. I liave presum.cd to prolong tlis Vision of the Revolutio7is of Spain down to the 
present eventful crisis of the Peniusula ; and to divide it, by a supposed change of scene, into 
Three Periods. The First of these represents the Invasion of the Moors., the Defeat and 
DeaiJt of Roderick, and closes with the peaceful occupation of the country by th€ Victors. The 
Second Period embraces the state of the Peninsula, when the coftguests of the Spaniards and 
Portugtiese in the East and West Indies had raised to the highest pitch the renown of their 
arms ; sullied, however, by superstition and cruelty, A n allusion to the inhumanities of tli^ 
Inquisition terminates this picture. The Last Part oJ the Poem opens with the state of 
Spain previous to the unparalleled treachery of Buukapartb ; gives a sketch 0/ the usurpation 
attempted upon that unsuspicious and friendly kingdom, and terminates with the arrival of 
the British succors. It may be farther proper to mention, that the object of the Poem is less 
to co7nviemorate or detail particular incide^its, than to exhibit a general and impressive 
picture of the several periods brought upon the stage. 
Edinburgh, ^^Mw^ 24, 181 1. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



Quiddignum memorare tuis, Hispania, terris. 
Vox humana valet! — Claudian. 



INTRODUCTION. 

I. 

Lives there a strain, whose sounds of 
mounting fire 
May rise distinguish'd o'er the din of 
war ; 
Or died it with yen "Master of the Lyre, 
Who sung beleaguer'd Ilion's evil star ? 
Such, Wellington, might reach thee 
from afar, 
Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's 
range ; 
Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood 
could mar, 
All as it swell'd 'twixt each loud 
trumpet-change. 
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal 



revenge 



11. 



Yes ! such a strain, with all o'er-pouring 
measure, 
Might melodize with each tumultuous 
sound, 
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or 
plea^■ure, 
That rings Mondego's ravaged shores 
around ; 
The thundering cry of hosts with con- 
quest crown'd, 
The female shriek, the ruin'd peasant's 
moan. 
The shout of captives from their chains 
unbound, 
The foil'd oppressor's deep and sullen 
groan, 
Nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'er- 
throv.-n. 

III. 

But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day, 

Skill'd but to imitate an elder page, 
Timid and raptureless, can we repay 
The debt thou claim'st tn this ex- 
hausted age ? 
Thou givest our lyres a theme, that 
might engage 
(162) 



Those that could send thy name o'eJ 
sea and land. 
While sea and land shall last ; for Ho- 
mer's rage 
A theme ; a theme for Milton's mighty 
hand — 
How much unmeet for us, a faint degen- 
erate band ! 

IV. 

Ye mountains stern! within whose rug- 
ged breast 
The friends of Scottish freedom found 
repose ; 
Ye torrents ! whose hoarse sounds have 
soothed their rest, 
Returning trom the field of vanquish'd 
foes ; 
Say have ye lost each wild majestic close, 
That erst the choir of Bards or Druids 
flung ; ■ 
What time their hymn of victory arose, 
And Cattrasth's glens with voice of 
triumph rung, 
And mystic Merlin harp'd, and gray-hair'd 
Llywarch sung ! ^ 

V. 

O ! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain, 
As sure your changeful gales seem oft 
to say 
When sweeping wild and sinking soft 
again, 
Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp's wild 
sway ; 
If ye can echo such triumphant lay, 

Then lend the note to him has loved 
you long ! 
Who pious gathered each tradition gray. 
That floats your solitary wastes along, 
And with affection vain gave them new 
voice in song. 

VI. 

For not till now, how oft soe'er the task 
Of truant verse hath lighten'd graver 
care, 

From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask, 
In phrase poetic, inspiration fair ; 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



^3 



Careless he gave his numbers to tlie air, 
They came unsought for, if applauses 
came; 
Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer ; 
Let but his verse befit a hero's fame, 
immortal be the verse! — forgot the poet's 
name. 

VII. 

Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer 
tost: 
" Minstrel ! the fame of whose ro- 
mantic lyre, 
Capricious-swelling now, may soon be 
lost, 
Like the light flickering of a cottage 
fire; 
If to such task presumptuous thou aspire, 
Seek not from us the meed to warrior 
due: 
Age after age has gather'd son to sire, 
Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict 
knew, 
Or, pealing through our vales, victcrious 
bugles blew. 



" Decay'd our old traditionary lore, 

Save where the lingering fays renew 
their ring, 
By milk-maid seen beneath the hawthorn 
hoar, 
Or round the marge of Minchmore's 
haunted spring • - 
Save where their legends gray-hair'd shep- 
herds sing. 
That now scarce win a listening ear but 
thine. 
Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging, 
And rugged deeds recount in rugged 
line. 
Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, 
or Tyne. 

IX. 

Nol search romantic lands, where the 

near Sun 
Gives with unstinted boon ethereal 
^ flame, 

Where the rude villager, his labor done, 
In verse spontaneous ^ chants some 
favor' d name. 
Whether Olalia's charms his tribute 
claim, 
Her eye of diamond, and her locks of 
jet; 
Or whether, kindling at the deeds of 
Graeme,'* 



He sing, to wild Morisco measure set. 
Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's bay- 
onetl 

X. 

" Explore those regions, where the flinty 
crest 
Of wild Nevada ever gleams with 
snows. 
Where in the proud Alhambra's ruin'd 
breast 
Barbaric monuments of pomp repose; 
Or where the banners of more ruthless 
foes 
Than tiie fierce J.Ioor, float o'er To- 
ledo's fane, 
From whose tall towers even now the 
patriot throws 
An anxious glance, to spy upon the 
plain 
The blended ranks of iingland, Portugal, 
and Soain. 



" There, of Numantian fire a swarthy 
spark 
Still lightens in the sun-burnt native's 
eye; 
The stately port, slow step, and visage 
dark, 
Still mark enduring pride and con- 
stancy. 
And, if the glow of feudal chivalry 

Beam not, as once, thy nobles' dearest 
pride, 
Iberia ! oft thy crestless peasantry 

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit 
their side. 
Have seen, yet dauntless stood — 'gainst for- 
tune fought and died. 



" And cherish'd still by that unchanging 
race. 
Are themes for minstrelsy more high 
than thine ; 
Of strange tradition many a mystic trace, 
Legend and vision, prophecy and sign; 
Where wonders wild of Arabescjue conv 
bine 
With Gothic imagery of darker shade, 
Forming a model meet foe minstrel line. 
Go, seek such theme!" — The Mount- 
ain Spirit said : 
With filial awe I heard — I heard, and I 
*obey'd. 



i64 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I. 

Rearing their crests amid the cloudless 
skies. 
And darkly clustering in the pale 
moonlight, 
Toledo's holy towers and spires arise, 
As from a trembling lake of silver 
white. 
Their mmgled shadows intercept the 
sight 
Of the broad burial-ground out-stretch'd 
below, 
And nought disturbs the silence of the 
niglit ; 
All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver 
glow, 
All save the heavy swell of Teio's ceaseless 
flow. 

II. 
All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide. 
Or, distant heard, a courser's neigh or 
tramp ; 
Their changing rounds as watchful horse- 
men ride, 
To guard the limits of King Roderick's 
camp. 
For, through the river's night-fog rolling 
damp, 
Was many a proud pavilion dimly seen, 
Which glimmer'd back against the moon's 
fair lamp, 
Tissues of silk and silver twisted sheen, 
And standards proudly pitch'd, and warders 
arm'd between. 



But of their Monarch's person keeping 
ward, 
Since last the deep-mouth'd bell of 
vespers toU'd, 
. The chosen soldiers of the royal guard 
The post beneath the proud Cathedral 
hold ; 
A band unlike their Gothic sires of old. 
Who, for the cap of steel and iron 
mace, 
Bear slender darts, and casques bedeck'd 
with gold, 
While silver-studded belts their shoul- 
ders grace. 
Where ivory quivers ring in the broad fal- 
chion's place. 

IV. 

In the light language of an idle court^ 
They murmur' d at their master's long 
delay* 



And held his lengthen'd orisons in 
sport : — 
"What! will Don Roderick here till 
morning stay. 
To wear in shrift and prayer the night 
away ? 
And are his hours in such dull penance 
past, 
For fair Florinda's plunder'd charms to 
pay?"s_ 
Then to the east their weary eyes they 
cast, 
And wish'd the lingering dawn would glim, 
mer forth at last. 

V. 

But, far within, Toledo's Prelate lent 

An ear of fearful wonder to the King ; 
The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 

So long that sad confession witnessing: 
For Roderick told of many a hidden 
thing. 
Such as are lothly utter'd to the air, 
When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the 
bosom wring. 
And Guilt his secret burden cannot 
bear. 
And Conscience seeks in speech a respite 
from Despair. 



Full on the Prelate's face, and silver hair, 
The stream of failing liglit was feebly 
roll'd : 
But Roderick's visage, though his head 
was bare. 
Was shadow'd by his hand and man- 
tle's fold. 
While of his hidden soul the sins he told. 
Proud Alaric's descendant could not 

brook, 
That mortal man his bearing should be- 
hold. 
Or boast that he had seen,.when Con- 
science shook. 
Fear tame a monarch's brow, Remorse V 
warrior's look. 



The old man's faded cheek wax'd yet 
more pale. 
As many a secret sad the King be- 
wray 'd ; 
As sign and glance eked out the unfin- 
ish'd tale, 
When in the midst his faltering whisper 
staid.- 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



1^5 



" Thus royal Witiza * was slain," — he 
said ; 
" Yet, holy Father, deem not it was I." 
Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to 
shade. — 
" Oh ! rather deem 'twas stern necessity ! 
Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or 
die. 

VIII. 

" And if Florinda's shrieks alarm'd the 
air. 
If she invoked her absent sire in vain, 
And on her knees implored that I would 
spare. 
Yet, reverend priest, thy sentence rash 
refrain ! — 
All is not as it seems — the female train 
Know by their bearing to disguise their 
mood : " — 
But Conscience here, as if in high 
disdain, 
Sent to the Monarch's cheek the 
burning blood — 
He stay'd his speech abrupt — and up the 
Prelate stood. 



"O harden'd offspring of an iron race 1 
What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, 
shall I say? 
What alms, or prayers, or penance can 
efface 
Murder's dark spot, wash treason's 
stain away ! 
For the foul ravisher how shall I pray, 
Who, scarce repentant, makes his crime 
his boast ? 
How hope Almighty vengeance shall 
delay. 
Unless in mercy to yon Christian 
host. 
He spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless 
sheep be lost." 

X. 

Then kindled the dark Tyrant in his 
mood, 
And to his brow return'd its dauntless 
gloom ; 
"And wclconie then," he cried, "be 
blood for blood. 
For treason treachery, for dishonor 
doom ! 



* Witiza was Roderick's predecessor on the 
Spanish throne. Ho was slain by Roderick's 
connivance. 



Yet will I know whence come they, or 
by whom. 
Show, for thou canst — give forth the 
fated key, 
And guide me, Priest, to that mysterious 
room, 
Where, if aught true in old tradition be, 
His nation's future fates a Spanish King 
shall see." — 



" Ill-fated Prince ! recall the despcrata 
word, 
Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey ! 
Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would 
afford 
Never to former Monarch entrance- 
way ; 
Nor shall it ever ope, old records say. 

Save to a King, the last of all his line. 
What time his empire totters to decay. 
And treason digs, beneath, her fatal 
mine, 
And, high above, impends avenging wrath 
divine." — 

XII. 

" Prelate ! a Monarch's fate brooks no 
delay ; 
Lead on ! " — The ponderous key the 
old man took. 
And held the winking lamp, and led the 
way. 
By winding stair, dark aisle, and 
secret nook, 
Then on an ancient gateway bent his 
look; 
And, as the key the desperate King 
essay'd. 
Low mutter'd tli.-nders the Cathedral 
shook, 
And twice he stopp'd, and twice new 
effort made, 
Till the huge bolts roll'd back, and the loud 
hinges bray'd 



Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted 
hall; 
Roof, walls, and floor were all of marble 
stone. 
Of polished marble, black as funeral pall, 
Carved o'er with signs and characters 
unknown. 
A paly light, as of the dawning, shone 
Through the sad bounds, but whence 
they could not spy •: 
For window to the upper air was none ; 



r66 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet, by that light, Don Roderick could 
descry 
Wonders that ne'er till then were seen by 
mortal eye. 

XIV. 

Grim sentinels, against the upper wall, 
Of molten bronze, two Statues held 
their place ; 
Massive their naked limbs, their stature 
tall, 
Their frowning foreheads golden circles 
grace. 
Moulded they'seem'd for kings of giant 
race, 
That lived and sinn'd before the aveng- 
ing flood ; 
This grasp'd a scythe, that rested on a 
mace; 
This spread his wings for flight, that 
pondering stood, 
Each stubborn seem'd and stern, immutable 
of mood. 

XV, 

Fix'd was the right-hand Giant's orazen 
look 
Upon his brother's glass of shifting 
sand, 
As if its ebb he measured by a book. 
Whose iron volume loaded his huge 
hand ; 
In which was wrote of many a fallen 
land, 
Of empires lost, and kings to exile 
driven : 
And o'er that pair their names in scroll 
expand — 
" Lo, Destiny and Time ! to whom 
by Heaven 
The guidance of the earth is for a season 
given." — 



Even while they read, the sand-glass 
wastes away ; 
And, as the last and lagging grains did 
creep, 
That right-hand Giant 'gan his club up- 
sway, 
Aa one that startles from a heavy 
sleep. 
Full on the upper wail the mace's sweep 
At once descended with the force of 
thunder, 
And hurtling down at once, in crumbled 
heap, 



The marble boundary was rent asun- 
der, 
And gave to Roderick's view new sights of 
fear and wonder. 

XVII. 

For they might spy, beyond that mighty 
breach. 
Realms as of Spain in vision'd prospect 
laid, 
Castles and towers, in due proportion 
each, 
As by some skilful artist's hand prO" 
tray'd ; 
Here, cross'd by many a wild Sierra's 
shade. 
And boundless plains that tire tha 
traveller's eye; 
There, rich with vineyard and with olive 
glade. 
Or deep-embrown'd by forests huge and 
high. 
Or wash'd by mighty streams, that slowly, 
murmur'd by. 



And here, as erst upon the antique stage, 
Pass'd forth the band of masquer* 
trimly led, 
In various forms, and various equipage. 
While fitting strains the hearer's fancy 
fed; 
So, to sad Roderick's eye in ordei 
spread, 
Successive pageants fill'd that mystic 
scene. 
Showing the fate of battles ere they 
bled. 
And issue of events that had not 
been; 
And, ever and anon, strange sounds wer» 
heard between. 



First shrill'd an unrepeated female 
shriek ! — 
It seem'd as if Don Roderick knew the 
call. 
For the bold blood was blanching in hi» 
cheek. — 
Then answer'd kettle-drum and attabal 
Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the eaJ 
appal, 
The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie's 
yell ,6 
Ring wildly dissonant along the hall, 



I 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



157 



Needs not to Roderick their dread im- 
port tell — 
" The Mooi- i " he cried, '' the Moor ! — ring 
out to the Tocsin bell ! 

XX. 

" They come ! they come ! I see the 
groaning lands 
White with the turbans of each Arab 
horde ; 
Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving 
bands, 
Alia and Mahomet their battle-word, 
The choice they yield, the Koran or the 
Sword — 
See how the Christians rush to arms 
amain ! — 
In yonder shout the voice of conflict 
roar'd. 
The shadowy hosts are closing on the 
plain — 
Now, God and Saint lago strike, for the 
good cause of Spain ! 

XXI. 

"By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the 
Christians yield ! 
Their coward leader gives for flight 
the sign ! 
The sceptred craven mounts to quit the 
field- 
Is not yon steed Orelio? — Yes, 'tis 
mine! ^ 
But never was she turn'd from battle-line : 
Lo ! where the recreant spurs o'er 
stock and stone ! 
Curses pursue the slave, and wrath di- 
vine ! 
Rivei;s ingulf him ! " — " Hush," in shud- 
dering tone. 
The Prelate said ; — " rash Prince, yon vis- 
ion'd form's thine own." 

XXII, 

Just then, a torrent cross'd the flier's 
course ; 
The dangerous ford the Kingly Like- 
ness tried ; 
But the deep eddies whelm'd both man 
and horse, 
Swept like benighted peasant down the 
tide ; 
And the proud Moslemah spread far and 
wide, 
As numerous as their native locust 
band ; 
Berber and Ismael's sons the spoils di- 
vide, 



With naked cimeters mete out the 
land, 
And for the bondsmen base the freeborn 
natives brand. 

xxin. 
Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose 
The loveliest maidens of the Christian 
line; 
Then, menials, to tlieir misbelieving 
foes, 
Castile's young nobles held forbidden 
wine ; 
Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation's 
sign, 
By impious hands was from the altar 
thrown, 
And the deep aisles of tlie polluted 
shrine 
Echo'd, for holy hymn and organ- 
tone. 
The Santon's frantic dance, the Fakir's 
gibbering moan. 

XXIV. 

How fares Don Roderick ? — E'en as one 
who spies 
Flames dart their glare o'er midnight's 
sable woof. 
And hears around his children's piercing 
cries. 
And sees the pale assistants stand 
Moof ; 
While cruel Conscience brings him bitter 
proof. 
His folly or his crime have caused his 
grief ; 
And while above him nods the crumbling 
roof. 
He curses earth and Heaven — himself 
in chief — 
Desperate of earthly aid, despairing Heaven's 
relief ! 

XXV, 

That scythe-arm'd Giant turn'd his fatal 
glass. 
And twilight on the landscape closed her 
wings ; 
Far to Asturian hilis the war-sounds 
pass, 
And in their stead rebeck or timbrel 
rings ; 
And to the sound the bell-deck'd dancer 
springs. 
Bazaars resound as when their marts 
are met, 



iCS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In tourney light the Moor his jerrid* 

flings, 
, And on the land as evening seem'd to 
set, 
The Imaum's chant was heard from mosque 
or minaret. 

XXVI. 

So passed that pageant. Ere another 
came. 
The visionary scene was wrapp'd in 
smoke, 
Wliose sulph'rous wreaths were cross'd by 
sheets of flame ; 
With every flash a bolt explosive 
broke, 
Till Roderick deem'd the fiends had burst 
their yoke, 
And wav'd 'S'^^i'ist heaven the infernal 
gonfalone?t 
War 
spoke, 

Never by ancient warrior heard or 
known ; 
Lightning and smoke her breath, and thun- 
der was her tone. 

XXVII. 

From the dim landscape roll the clouds 
a\vay — 
The Christians have rcgain'd their her- 
itage; 
Before the Cross has vvaned the Cres- 
cent's ray 
And many a monastery decks the 
stage, 
And lofty church, and low-brow'd hermit- 
age. 
The land obeys a Hermit and a 
Knight,— 
The Genii those of Spain for many an 
age ; _ 
This clad in sackcloth, that in armor 
bright, 
^nd that was Valour named, this Big- 
otry was hight. 

XXVIII. 

Valor was harness'd like a Chief of 
old, 
Arm'd at all points, and prompt for 
knightly gest ; 
His sword was temper'd in the Ebro 
cold, 
Morena's eagle plume adorn' d his 
crest. 



* jftrrid, javeliu. | C^tjklan^, Lanner. 



The spoils of Afric's lion bound his 
breast. 
Fierce he stepp'd forward and flung 
down his gage ; 
As if of mortal kind to brave the best. 
Him foUow'd his Companion, dark and 
sage. 
As he, my Master, sung the dangerous 
Archimage. 

XXIX. 

Haughty of heart and brow the Warrior 
came, 
In look and language pioud as proud 
might be, 
Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, and 
fame : 
Yet was that barefoot monk more 
proud than he : 
And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree, 
So round the loftiest soul his toils he 
wound. 
And with his spells subdued the fierce and 
free. 
Till ermined Age and Youth in arms 
renown'd. 
Honoring his scourge and hair-cloth, meekly 
kiss'd the ground. 

XXX. 

And thus it chanced that Valor, peer- 
less knight, 
Wlio ne'er to King or Kaiser veil'd his 
crest, 
Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight, 
Since first his limbs with mail he did 
invest, 
Stoop'd ever to that Anchoret's behest : 
Nor reason'd of the right, i^pr of the 
wrong. 
But at his bidding laid the lance in rest. 
And wrought fell deeds the troubled 
world along, 
For he was fierce as brave, and pitiless as 
strong. 

XXXI. 

Oft his proud galleys sought some new 
found world, 
That latest sees the sun, or first the 
morn ; 
Still at that Wizard's feet their spoils lie 
hurl'd, — 
Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne, 
Crowns by Caciques, { aigrettes by Om- 
rahs worn, 



t Caciques and Omrahs, Peruvian and 
Mex.icAu chiefs or uobks. 



THE VISION' OF DON RODERICK. 



169 



Wrought of rare gems, but broken, rent, 
and foul ; 
Idols of gold from heathen temples torn, 
Bedabbled ail with blood. — With grisly 
scowl 
The Hermit mark'd the stains, and smiled 
beneath his cowl. 

XXXII. 

Then did he bless the offering, and bade 
make 
Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and 
praise : 
And at his word the choral hymns 
awake, 
And many a hand the silver censer 
sways. 
But with the incense-breath these censers 
raise, 
Mix steams from corpses smouldering 
in the fire ; 
The groans of prison'd victims mar the 
lays. 
And shrieks of agony confound the 
quire ; 
While 'mid the mingled sounds, the darken'd 
scenes expire. 

XXXIII. 

Preluding light, were strains of music 
heard, 
As once again revolved that measured 
sand ; 
Such sounds as when, for sylvan dance 
prepared, 
Gay Xeres summons forth her vintage 
band ; 
When for the light bolero ready stand 
The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha 
met,^ 
He conscious of his broider'd cap and 
band, 
She of her netted locks and light cor- 
sette, 
Fach tiptoe perch'd to spring, and shake the 
Castanet. 

XXXIV. 

And well such strains the opening scene 
became ; 
For Valor had relax'd his ardent 
look. 
And at a lady's feet like lion tame. 

Lay stretch'd, full loth the weight of 
arms to brook ; 
And soften'd Bigotry, upon his book, 
Pattsr'd a task of little good or ill : 



But the blithe peasant plied his pruning 
hook, 
Whistled the muleteer o'er vale and 
hill, 
And rung from village-green the merry 
seguidille. 



Gray Royalty, grown impotent of toil. 
Let the grave sceptre slip his lazy 
hold ; 
And, careless, saw his rule become the 
spoil 
Of a loose Female and her minion 
bold. 
But peace was on the cottage and the 
fold. 
From court intrigue, from bickering 
faction far ; 
Beneath the chestnut-tree Love's tale was 
told. 
And to the tinkling of the light guitar, 
Sweet stoop'd the western sun, sweet rose 
the evening star. 

XXXVI. 

As that sea-cloud, in size like human 
hand. 
When first from Carmel by the Tish- 
bite* seen, 
Came slowly overshadowing Israel's 
land, 
A while, perchance, bedeck'd with 
colors sheen, 
While yet the sunbeams on its skirts had 
been, 
Limning with purple and with gold it.-, 
shroud. 
Till darker folds obscured the bluj; 
serene, 
And blotted heaven with one b^oai". 
sable cloud. 
Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirl 
winds howl'd aloud : — 

XXXVII. 

Even so, upon that peaceful scene was 
pour'd, 
Like gathering clouds, full many a 
foreign band, 
And He, their Leader, wore in sheath his 
sword, 
And offer' d peaceful front and open 
hand, 

* Elijah the Prophet. See 1 Kings, chap, 
xviii. 



170 



SC07'T'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Veiling the perjured treachery he 
plann'd, 
By friendship's zeal and honor's spe- 
cious guise, 
Until he won the passes of the land ; 
Then burst were honor's oath and 
friendship's ties ! 
He clutch'd his vulture-grasp, and call'd fair 
Spain his prize. 

XXXVIII. 

An Iron Crown his anxious forehead 
bore; 
And well such diadem his heart be- 
came. 
Who ne'er his purpose for remorse gave 
o'er, 
Or check'd his course for piety or 
shame ; 
Who, train'd a soldier, deem'd a soldier's 
fame 
Might flourish in the wreath of battles 
won, 
Though neither truth nor honor deck'd 
his name ; 
Who, placed by fortune on a Monarch's 
throne, 
Reck'd not of Monarch's faith, or Mercy's 
kingly tone. 

XXXIX. 

From a rude isle his ruder lineage carne, 
The spark, that, from a suburb-hovel's 
hearth 
Ascending, wraps some capital in flame. 
Hath not a meaner or more sordid 
birth. 
And for the soul that bade him waste the 
earth — 
The sable land-flood from some swamp 
obscure. 
That poisons the glad husband-field with 
dearth, 
And by destruction bids its fame en- 
dure, 
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, 
and impure.* 

XL. 

Before that Leader strode a shadowy 

Form ; 
Her limbs like mist, her torch like 

meteor show'd. 
With which she beckon'd him through 

fight and storm, 



? In historical truth, Napoleon I.'s fanoily 
ras not plebeian. 



And all he crush'd that cross'd his des- 
perate road, 
Nor thought, nor fear'd, nor look'd on 
what he trode. 
Realms could not glut his pride, blood 
could not slake. 
So oft as e'er she shook her torch abroad — ' 
It was Amditicn bade her terrors 
wake. 
Nor deign 'd she, as of yore, a milder form 
to take 

XLI. 

No longer nov/ the spurn 'd at mean re- 
venge, 
Or st?..d her hand for conquer'd foe- 
mr.n"s moan ; 
As \vi"en. the fates of aged Rome to 
chringe. 
By Caesar's she cross'd the Ru- 
bicon. 
Nor joy'd she to bestow the spoils she 
won. 
As when the banded powers of Greece 
were task'd 
To war beneath the Youth of Macedon : 
No seemly veil her modern minion 
ask'd, 
He saw her hideous face, and loved the fiend 
unmask' d. 

XLII. 

That Prelate mark'd his march — On ban- 
ners blazed 
With battles won in many a distant 
land. 
On eagle-standards and on arms he 
gazed ; 
" And hopest thou then," he said, " thy 
power shall stand 1 
O, thou hast builded on the shifting sand, 
And thou hast temper'd it with slaugh- 
ter's flood; 
And know, fell scourge in the Almighty's 
hand, 
Gore-moisten'd trees shall perish in the 
bud. 
And bv a bloody death shall die the Man o 
Blood ! " 

XLIII. 

The ruthless Leader beckon'd from his 
train 
A v.'an fraternal Shade, and bade him 
kneel, 
And paled his temples with the crown of 
Spain, 
While trumpets rang, and heralds cried, 
« Castile I " » 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



171 



? T ot that he loved him — No ! — In no man's 
weal, 
Scarce in his own, e'er joy'd that sul- 
len heart ; 
Yet round that throne he bade his warriors 
wheel, 
That the poor Puppet might perform 
his part, 
A.nd be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck 
to start. 



But on the Natives of that Land misused, 
Not long the silence of amazement 
hung, 
Noi brook'd they long their friendly faith 
.abused ; 
For, with a common shriek, the general 
tongue 
Exclaimed, '* To arms ! " and fast to arms 
they sprung. 
And Valor woke, that Genius of 
tire Land ! 
Pleasure, and ease, and sloth, aside he 
flung, 
As burst th' awakening Nazarite his 
band, 
When 'gainst his treacherous foes he clench'd 
his dreadful hand.* 



That Mimic INIonarch now cast anxious 
eye 
Upon the Satraps that begirt him 
round, 
l^ow doff'd his royal robe in act to fly. 
And from his brow the diadem un- 
bound. 
So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound, 
From Tarick's walls to Bilboa's moun- 
tains blown, 
These martial satellites hard labor 
found, 
To guard a while his substituted 
throne — 
Light recking of his cause, but battling for 
their own. 

XLVI. 

From Alpuhara's peak that bugle run-r. 
And it was echo'd from Corunna's 
wall ; 

Stately Seville responsive war-shot flimg, 
Grenada cauglit it in her Moorisli hall ; 

Galicia bade her children fight or fall, 



* Samsor.. See Judges, chap. 



Wild Biscay shook his mountain 
coronet, 
Valencia roused her at the battle<all, 
And, foremost still where Valor's sons 
are met. 
First started to his gun each fiery Miquelet. 



But unappall'd and burning for the fight, 
The Invaders march, of victory secure fj 
Skilful their force to sever or unite, 

And train'd alike to vanquish or en- 
dure. 
Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to ensure, 
Discord to breathe, and jealousy to sow. 
To quell by boasting, and by bribes to 
lure ; 
While nought against them bring the 
unpracticed fee, 
Save hearts for Freedom's cause, and hands 
for Freedom's blow. 

XLVIII. 

Proudly they march. — but, O ! they march 
not forth 
By one hot field to crown a brief 
campaign, 
As wlien their Eagles, sweeping through 
the North, 
Dcstroy'd at every stoop an ancient 
reign ! 
Far other fate had Heaven decreed foi 
Spain ; 
In vain the steel, in vain" the torch wag 
plied. 
New Patriot armies started from the 
slain. 
High blazed the war, and long, and far, 
and v.'ide,^° 
And oft t!ie God of Battles blest the right- 
eous side. 

XLIX. 

Nor unatoned, where Freedom's foes 
pr^ivail, 
Remain'd their savage waste. Witlit 
blade and brand, ' 

By day the Invaders ravaged hill and dale. 
But, with the darkness, the Guerilla 
band 
Came like night's tempest, and avenged 
the land. 
And claim'd for blood the retribution 
due. 
Probed the hard heart, and loop'd the 
murd'rous hand ; 



172 



SCO TT\S FOE TIC A L WORKS. 



And Dawn, when o'er the scene her 
beams she threw, 
Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers' 
corpses knew. 

L. 
What minstrel verse may sing, or tongue 
may tell, 
Amid the vision'd strife from sea to sea, 
How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell, 

Still honor'd in defeat as victory ! 
For that sad pageant of events to be, 
Show'd every form of fight by field 
and flood ; 
Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their 
glee, 
Beheld, while riding on the tempest 
scud, 
The waters choked with slain, the earth 
bedi-ench'd v/ith blood 1 

LI. 

Then Zaragoza— blighted be the tongue 
That names thy name without the 
honor due ! 
For never hath the harp of Minstrel rung 
Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true ! 
Mine, sap, and bomb, thy shatter'd ruins 
knew, 
Each art of war's extremity had room. 
Twice from thy half-sack'd streets the 
foe withdrew. 
And when at length stern fate decreed 
thy doom. 
They won not Zaragoza, but her children's 
bloody tomb." 

LII. 

Yet raise thy head, sad city 1 Though in 
chains, 
Enthrall'd thou canst not be 1 Arise, 
and claim 
Reverence from every heart where Free- 
dom reigns, 
For what thou worshippest ! — thy 
sainted dame. 
She of the Column, honor'd be her name, 
By all, whate'er their creed, who honor 
love I 
And like the sacred relics of the flame, 
That gave some martyr to the bless'd 
above. 
To every loyal heart may thy sad embers 
prove ! 

• LIII. 

Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona fair ! 
Faithful to death thy heroes shall be 
sung, 



Manning the towers while o'er their heads 
the air 
Swart as the smoke from raging furnace 
hung ; 
Now thicker dark'ning where the mine 
was sprung, 
Now briefly lighten'd by the cannon's 
flare, 
Now arch'd with fire-sparks as the bomb 
was flung. 
And redd'ning now with conflagration's 
glare, 
While bv the fatal light the foes for storm 



prepare. 



LIV. 



While all around was danger, strife, and 
fear. 
While the earth shook, and darken'd 
was the sky. 
And wide Destruction stunn'd the listen- 
ing ear, 
Appall'd the heart, and stupefied the 
eye, — 
Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry, 
in which old Albion's heart and tongue 
unite. 
Whene'er her soul is up, and pulse beats 
high, 
Whether it hail the wine cup or the 
fight. 
And bid each arm be strong, or bid each 
heart be light. 

LV. 

Don Roderick turn'd him as the shout 
grew loud — 
A varied scene the changeful vision 
show'd, 
For, where ' the ocean mingled with the 
cloud, 
A gallant navy stemm'd the billows 
broad. 
From mast and stern St. George's symbol 
flow'd. 
Blent with the silver cross to Scotland 
dear ; 
Mottling the sea their landward barges 
row'd. 
And flash'd the sun on bayonet, brand, 
and spear, 
And the wild beach return'd the seaman's 
jovial cheer. 

LVI. 

It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight ! 
The billows foam'd beneath a thousand 
oars. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



173 



Fast as they land the red-cross ranks 
unite, 
Legions on legions bright'ning all the 
shores. 
Then banners rise, and cannon-signal 
roars, 
Then peals the warlike thunder of the 
drum, 
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish 
pours, 
And patriot hopes awake, and doubts 
are dumb. 
For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of 
Ocean come ! 

LVII. 

A various host they came — whose ranks 
display 
Each mode in which the warrior meets 
the fight, 
The deep battalion locks its firm array, 
And meditates his aim tlie marksman 
light ; 
Far glance the light of sabres flashing 
bright, 
Where mounted squadrons shake the 
eclioing mead. 
Lacks not artillery breathing flame and 
night, 
Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'd by rapid 
steed, 
That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in 
speed. 

LVIII. 

A various host — from kindred realms they 
came. 
Brethren in arms, but rivals in re- 
nown — 
For yon fair bands shall merry England 
claim, 
And with their deeds of valor deck her 
crown. 
Hers their bold port, and hers their mar- 
tial frown, 
And hers their scorn of death in free- 
dom's cause, 
Their eyes of azure, and their locks of 
brown. 
And the blunt speech that biursts with- 
out a pause, 
And freeborn thoughts, which league the 
Soldier with the Laws. 

LIX. 

And, O ! loved warriors of the Minstrel's 
land! 
Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans 



The rugged form may mark the mountain 
band. 
And liarsher features, and a mien more 
grave ; 
But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so 
brave, 
As that which beats beneath the Scot- 
tisli plaid ; 
And when the pibroch bids the battle 
rave, 
And level for the charge your arms ar<, 
laid. 
Where lives the desperate foe that for such 
onset staid ! 



Hark ! from yon stiitcly ranks what laugh- 
ter rings, 
Mingling wild mirth' with war's stern 
minstrelsy. 
His jest while each blithe comrade round 
him flings, 
And moves to death with military 
glee:_ 
Boast, Erin, boast them ! tameless, frank, 
and free, 
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger 
known. 
Rough nature's children, humorous as 
she: 
And He, yon Chieftain — strike the 
proudest tone 
Of thy bold harp, green Isle ! — the Hero is 
thine own. 

LXI. 

Now on the scene Vimeira* should be 

shown. 
On Talavera's fight should Roderick 

gaze. 
And hear Corimna wail her battle won. 
And see Busaco's crest with lightning 
blaze : — 
But shall fond fable mix with heroes' 
praise ? 
Hath Fiction's stage for Truth's long 
triumphs room ? 
And dare her wild-flowers mingle with the 
bays. 
That claim a long eternity to bloom 
Around the warrior's crest, and o'er the war- 
rior's tomb ! 



* The battle of Vimeira was fought August 
2ist, 1808 ; Corunna, January i6th, 1809 ; Tal- 
avera, July aSth, 1S09 j Busaco, Septeinb»r 
27th, iSio. 



74 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LXII. 

Or may I give adventurous Fancy 
scope, 
And stretch a bold hand to the awful 
veil 
That hides futurity from anxious hope, 
Bidding beyond it scenes of glory 
hail. 
And panting Europe rousing at the tale 
Of Spain's invaders from her confines 

hurl'd, 
While kindling nations buckle on their 

mail, 
And Fame, with clarion-blast and wings 
unfurl'd, 
To Freedom and Revenge awakes an in- 
jured World ? 

LXIII. 

O vain, though anxious, is the glance I 
cast. 
Since Fate has mark'd futurity her 
own : 
Yet fate resigns to worth the glorious 
past, 
The deeds recorded, and the laurels 
won. 
Then, though the Vault of Destiny '- be 
gone. 
King, Prelate, all the phantasms of my 
brain, 
Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun. 
Yet grant for faith, for valor, and for 
Spain, 
One note of pride and fire, a Patriot's part- 
ing strain ! 



CONCLUSION. 
I. 

"Who shall command Estrella's moun- 
tain-tide 
Back to the source, when tempest- 
chafed, to hie ? 
Who, when Gascogne's vex'd gulf is raging 
wide, 
Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's 
cry? 
His magic power let such vain boaster try, 
And when the torrent shall his voice 
obey, 
And Biscay's whirl winds list his lullaby. 
Let him stand forth and bar mine 
eagles' way, 
A.nd they shall heed his voice, and at his 
bidding stay. 



II. 

" Else ne'er to stoop, till high on Lisbon's 
towers 
They close their wings, the symbol of 
our yoke. 
And their own sea hath whelm'd yon red- 
cross Powers ! " 
Thus, on the summit of Alverca's 
rock. 
To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's 
Leader spoke. 
While downward on the land his legions 
press. 
Before them it was rich with vine and 
flock. 
And smiled like Eden in her summer 
dress ; 
Behind their wasteful march, a reeking 
wilderness. ^^ 

in. 

And shall the boastful Chief maintain his 
word. 
Though Heaven hath heard the wail- 
ings of the land, 
Though Lusitania whet her vengeful 
sword. 
Though Britons arm, and Welling- 
ton command ! 
No ! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall stand 

An adamantine barrier to his force ; 
And from its base shall wheel his shat- 
ter'd band, 
As from the unshaken rock the torrent 
hoarse 
Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a 
devious course. 



Yet not Decause Alcoba's mountain-hawk 
Hath on his best and bravest made her 
food, 
In numbers confident, yon Chief shall 
balk 
His Lord's imperial thirst for spoil and 
blood : 
For full in view the promised conquest 
stood, 
And Lisbon's matrons from their walls 
might sum 
The myriads that had half the world sub- 
dued. 
And hear the distant thunders of tlh'^ 
drum. 
That bids the bands of France to storm and 
havoc come. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



175 



Four moons have heard these thunders 
idly roll'd, 
Have seen these wistful myriads eye 
their prey, 
As famish'd wolves survey a guarded 
fold- 
But in the middle path a Lion lay ! 
At length they move — but not to battle- 
fray, 
Nor blaze yon fires where meets the 
manly fight ; 
Beacons of infamy, they light the way 
Where cowardice and cruelty unite 
To damn with double shame their ignomin- 
ious flight 1 

VI. 

O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and 
Wrath ! 
Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be for- 
got, 
What wanton horrors mark'd their wreck- 
ful path ! 
The peasant butcher'd in his ruin'd 
cot, 
The hoary priest even at the altar shot, 
Childhood and age given o'er to sword 
and flame. 
Woman to infamy ; — no crime forgot, 
By which inventive demons might pro- 
claim 
Immortal hate to man, and scorn of God's 
great name ! 

VII. 
The rudest sentinel, in Britain born. 
With horror paused to view the havoc 
done. 
Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch 
forlorn,^* 
Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer 
grasp'd his gun. 
Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peaceful 
son 
Exult the death of sympathy to pay ; 
Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun, 
Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor 
the gay, . 
l^or the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's 
more worthless lay. 



But thou— unfoughten wilt thou yield to 
Fate, 
Minion of Fortune, now miscall'd in 
vaiul 



Can vantage-ground no confidence cre- 
ate, 
Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's moun- 
tain-chain .'' 
Vainglorious fugitive I ^^ yet turn agaia I 
Behold, where, named by some pro- 
phetic Seer, 
Flows Honor's Fountain,* and fore- 

doom'd the stain 
From thy dishonor'd name and arms to 
dear — 
Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her 
favor here I 

IX. 

Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant 
aid ; 
Those chief that never heard the lion 
roar ! 
Within whose souls lives not a trace por- 
tray'd 
Of Talavera, or Monde,p;o's shore! 
Marshal each band thou hast, and sum- 
mon more ; 
Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the 
v/hole ; 
Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron 
pour, 
Legion on Legion on thy foeman roll, 
And weary out his arm— thou canst not 
quell his soul. 

X. 

O vainly gleams with steel Agueda's 
shore, 
Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's 
plain. 
And front the flying thunders as they roar, 
With frantic charge and tenfold odds, 
in vain ! '^ 
And what avails thee that, for Cameron 
slain, ^'' 
Wild from his plaided ranks the yell 
was given — 
Vengeance and grief gave mountain-rage 
the rein. 
And, at the bloody spear-point head- 
long driven, 
Thy Despot's giant guards, fled like the 
rack of heaven. 

XI. 

Go, baffled boaster ! teach thy haughty 
mood 
To plead at thine imperious master's 
throne, 

* The literal translation of Fuentes d'Ho- 
noro. 



176 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Say, thou hast left his legions in their 
blood, 
Deceived his hopes, and frustrated thine 
own ; 
Say, that thine utmost skill and valor 
shown, 
By British skill and valor were out- 
vied ; 
Last say, thy conqueror was Welling- 
ton ! 
And if he chafe, be his own fortune 
tried — 
God and our cause to friend, the venture 
we'll abide. 



But you, ye heroes of that well-fought 
day. 
How shall a bard, unknowing and un- 
known. 
His meed to each victorious leader pay, 

Or bind on every brow tlie laurels won ? 
Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest 
tone, 
O'er the wide sea to hail Cadogan 
brave ; 
And he, perchance, the minstrel-note 
might own, 
Mindful of meeting brief that Fortune 
gave 
Mid yon far western isles that hear the At- 
lantic rave. 

XIII. 
Yes ! hard the task, when Britons wield 
the sword, 
To give each Chief and every field its 
fame : 
Hark! Albuera thunders Beresford, 
And Red Barossa shouts for dauntless 
Gr.^me! 
O for a verse of tumult and of flame, 
Bold as the bursting of tlieir cannon 
sound, 
To bid the world re-echo to their fame ! 
For never, upon gory battle-ground. 
With conquest's well-bought wreath were 
braver victors crown'd ! 

XIV. 
O who shall grudge him Albuera's bays, 
WI10 brought a race regenerate to the 
field, 
Roused them to emulate their fathers' 
praise, 
Temper'd their headlong rage, their 
courage stee'd/^ 



And raised fair Lusitania's fallen shield, 
And gave new edge to Lusitania's 
sword, 
And taught her sons forgotten arms to 
wield — 
Shiver'd my harp, and burst its every 
chord, 
If it forget thy worth, victorious Beres- 
ford I 

XV. 

Not on that bloody field of battle won, 
Though Gaul's proud legions roll'd 
like mist i.way, 
Was half his self-devoted valor 
shown, — 
He gaged but life on that illustrious 
day ; 
But when he toil'd those squadrons to 
array. 
Who fought like Britons in the bloody 
game, 
Sharper than Polish pike or assagay, 
He braved the shafts of censure and 
of shame, 
And, dearer far than life, he pledged a sol- 
dier's fame. 

XVI. 

Nor be his praise o'erpast who strove to 
hide 
Beneath the warrior's vest affection's 
wound, 
Whose wish Heaven for his country's 
weal denied ; 
Danger and fate he sought, but glory 
found. 
From clime to clime, where'er war's trum- 
pets sound, 
The wanderer went ; yet, Caledonia ! 

Thine was his thought in march and 
tented ground ; 
He dream'd 'mid Alpine cliffs of 
Athole's hill, 
And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's 
lovely rill. 

XVII. 

O hero of a race renown'd of old, 

Wliose war-cry oft has waked the bat- 
tle-swell, 
Since first distinguished in the onset bold, 
Wild sounding when the Roman ram- 
part fell 1 
By Wallace' side it rung the Southron's 
knell. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



n7 



Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber ovvn'd its 
fame, 
Tummell's rude pass can of its terrors 
tell, 
But ne'er from prouder field arose the 
name, 
Than when wild Ronda learn'd the con- 
quering shout of Gr^me ! '^ 

xvni. 
But all too long, through seas unknown 
and dark, [tale,) 

(With Spenser's parable I close my 



By shoal and rock hath steer'd my ven- 
turous bark, 
And landward now I drive before ,the 
gale. 
And now the blue and distant shore I 
hail, 
And nearer now I see the port ex- 
pand, 
And now I gladly furl my weary sail, 
And as the prow light touches on the 
strand, 
I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skiff 
to land. 



ROKEBY: 

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 



JOHN B. S. MORRITT, ESQ. 

THIS POEM, THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL DEME3IIE OP 
ROKEBY IS INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP. 



WALTER SCOTT. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



The Scene of this Poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts i^ 
ihe adjacent Fortress of Barnard Castle, and to other places in the Vicinity. 

TJie Time orcnpied by the Action is a space of Five days, Three of which are supposed to 
f lapse betijueen the e7id of the Fifth and the begin?iing of the Sixth Canto. 

The date of the S7ipposed events is immediately sv.bsequent to th^ great Battle of Marston 
Moor, id July 1644. This period of public confusion has been chosen, without any pur- 
pose of combining the Fable with the Military or Political Events of the Civil War, bttt 
only as affording a degree of probability to the Fictitious narraiivt now presented ia tht 
Public. 

12 



178 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

Between the publication of " The Lady of the Lake," which was so eminently succgssfui, 
and that of " Rokeby," in 1S13, three years had intervened. I shall not, 1 believe, be accused 
of ever having attempted to usurp a superiority over many men of genius, my contemporaries ; 
but, in point of popularity, not of actual talent, the caprice of the public had certainly given 
me such a temporary superiority over men, of whom in regard to poetical fancy and feeling, I 
scarcely thought myself worthy to loose the shoe-latch. On the other hand, it would be absurd 
affectation in me to deny, tb.at I conceived myself to understand, more perfectly than /nany 
of my contemporaries, the manner most likely to interest the great mass of mankind. Yet, 
even with thh belief, I must truly and fairly say, that I always considered myself rather as one 
who held the bets^ in time to be paid over to the winner, than as having any pretence to keep 
them in my own right. 

In the mean time years crept on, and not without their usual depredations on the passing 
generation. My sons had arrived at the age when the paternal home was no longer their best 
abode, as both were destined to active life. The field-sports, to which I was peculiarly attached, 
had now less interest, and were replaced by other amusements of a more quiet character ; and 
the means and opportunity of pursuing these were to be sought for, I had, indeed, for some 
years attended to farming, a knowledge of which is, or at least was then, indispensable to the 
comfort of a family residing in a solitary country-house ; but although this was the fdvcrite 
amusement of many of my friends, I have never been able to consider it as a source of pleasure. 
I never could think it a matter of passing importance, that my cattle, or crops, were better or 
more plentiful than those of my neighbors, and nevertheless I began to feel the necessity of 
some more quiet out-door occupation, different from those I had hitherto pursued, I purchased 
a small ^irm' of about one hundred acres, with the purpose of planting and improving it, to which 
property circumstances afterwards enabled me to make considerable additions ; and thus an era 
took place in my life, almost equal to the important one mentioned by the Vicar of Wakefield, 
when he removed from the Biue-ioom to the Brown. In point of neighborhood, at least, the 
change of residence made little tnore difference. Abbotsford, to which we removed, was only 
*six or seven m.iles down the Tweed, and lay on the same beautiful stream. It did not possess 
the romantic character of Ashestiel, my former residence ; but it hr.d a stretch of meado\y-!r.:id 
along the river, and possessed, in the phrase of the landscape-gardener, considerable capabilities. 
Above all, the land was my own, like Uncle Toby's Bowling-green, to do what I would with. 
It had been, though the gratitication was long postponed, an early wish of mine to connect 
myself with my mother-earth, and prosecute those experime-.its by which a species of crer.tive 
pi.wer is exercised over the face of nature. I can trace, even to childhood, a pleasure derived 
frrim Dodsley's account of Siienstone's Leasowes, and I envied the poet much m.ore for the 
pleasure of accomplishing the objects detailed in his friend's sketch of his grounds, than for the 
fossession of pipe, crook, flock, and Phillis to boot. My memory, also, tenacious of quaint 
expressions, still retained a phrase which it had gathered from an old almanac of Charles tlia 
Second's time (when everything down to almanacs affected to be smart), in which the reader, 
in the month of June, is advised, for health's sake, to walk a mile or two every day before break- 
fast, and, if he can possibly so manage, to let his exercise be taken upon his own l?.r.d. 

With the satisfaction of having attained the fulfilment of an early and long-cherished hope, I 
commenced my improvements, as delightful in their progress as those of the child who fir.;t 
makes a dress for a new doll. The nakedness of the land was in time hidden by wcodlands 'of 
considerable extent — the smallest of possible cottages was progressively expanded into a sort of 
cream of a mansion-house, whimsical in the extferior, but convenient within. Nor did I forget 
what is tlie natural pleasure of every man who has been a reader, I mean the filling the shelves 
ot a tolerably large library. All these objects I kept in view, to be executed as convenience 
should serve \ and although I knew many years musr elapse before they could be attained, I 
war. of a disposition to comfort myself with the Spanish proverb, " Time and I against any two." 

Tile difficult and indispensable point, of finding a permanent subject of occupation, was now 
at length attained ; but there was annexed to it the necessity of becoming again a candidate for 
public favor; for, as I was turned improver on the earth of th- everyday world, it was under 
condition that the small tenement of Parnassus, which might be accessible to my labors, should 
not remain uncultivated. 

I meditated^ at first, a poem on the subject of Bruce, in which I made some progress, but after- 
wards judged it advisable to lay it aside, supposing that an English story might have more 
novelty ; in consequence, tlie precedence was given to *' Rokeby." 

If subject and scenery could have influenced the fate of a poem, that of " Rokeby " should 
hare been einmently distinguished ; for the grounds belong to a dear friend, with when. I had 



ROKEBY. 179 



lived in habits of intimacy for many years, and the place itself united the romantic beauties of 
the wilds of Scotland with the rich and smiling aspect of the southern portion of the island. But 
the Cavaliers and Roundheads, whom I attempted to summon up to tenant this beautiful region, 
liad for the public neither the novelty nor the peculiar interest of the primitive Highlanders. 
This, perhaps, was scarcely to be expected, considering that the general mind sympathizes 
readily and at once with the stamp which nature lierself has affixed upon the manners of a peopls 
living in a simple and patriarchal state ; whereas it has more difficulty in understanding or 
interesting itself in manners founded upon those peculiar habits of thinking or acting, which are 
produced by the progress of society. We could read with pleasure the tale of the adventures of 
fi Cossack or a Alongol Tartar, while we only wonder and stare over those of the lovers in ths 
" Pleasing Chinese History," where the embarrassments turn upon difficulties arising out of 
nintelligible delicacies peculiar to the customs and manners of that affected people. 
The cause of my failure had, however, a far deeper root. The manner, or style, which, by its 
novelty, attracted the public in an unusual degree, had now, after having been three times before 
them, exhausted the patience of the reader, and began in the fourth to lose its charms. The 
reviewers may be said to have apostrophized the author in the language of I'arnell's Edwin :— 

" And here reverse the charm, he cries 
And let it fairly now suffice. 
The gambol has been shown." 

Tlie licentious combination of rhymes, in a manner not perhaps very congenial to our language, 
liad not been confined to the author. Indeed, in most similar cases, the inventors of such novel- 
ties have their reputation destroyed by t'leir own imitators, as Actjeon fell under the fury of his 
own dogs. The present author, like Bobadil, had taught his trick of fence to a hundred'gentle- 
men (and ladies), who could fence very nearly, or quite, as well as himself. For this there was 
no remedy ; the harmony became tiresome and ordinary, and both the original inventor and his 
invention must have fallen into contempt, if he had not found out another road to public favor 
VvMiat has been said of the metre onl)', must be considered to apply equally to the structure of 
the Poem and of the style. The very best passages of any popular style are not, perhaps, sus- 
ceptible of imitation, but they may be approached by men of talent ; and those who are less able 
to copy them, at least lay hold of their peculiar features, so as to produce a strong burlesque. 
In either way, the effect of the manner is rendered cheap and common ; and, in the latter case, 
ridiculous to boot. The evil consequences to an author's reputation are at least as fatal as those 
which come upon the musical composer, when his melody falls into the hands of the street ballad- 
singer. 

Of the unfavorable species of imitation, the author's style gave room to a very large number, 
owing to an appearance of facility to which some of those who used the measure unquestionably 
leaned too far. The effect of the more favorable imitations, composed by persons of talent, was 
^Imost equally unfortunate to the original minstrel, by showing that they could overshoot him 
with his own bow. In short, the popularity which once attended the School, as it was called, 
was now fast decaying. 

Besides all this, to have kept his ground at the crisis when " Rokeby" appeared, its author 
ought to have put forth his utmost strength, and to have possessed at least all his original 
advantages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was advancing on the stage — a rival not in 
poetical powers only, but in that art of attracting popularity, in which the present writer had 
hitherto preceded better men than himself. The reader will easily see that Byron is here meant, 
who, after a little velitation of no great promise, now appeared as a serious candidate, in the 
" First two Cantos of Childe Harold." I was astonished at the power evinced by that work, 
which neither the " Hours of Idleness," nor the " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," had 
prepared me to expect from its author. There was a depth in his thought, an eager abundance 
in his diction, which argued full confidence in the inexhaustible resources of v.hich he felt him- 
self possessed ; and there was some appearance of that labor ol the file, which indicates that the 
autlior IS conscious of the necessity of doing every justice to his work, that it may pass warrant 
Lord Byron was also a traveller, a man whose ideas were fired by having seen, m distant scenes of 
difficulty and danger, the places wliose very names are recorded in our bosoms as the shrir.es of 
ancient poetry. For his own misfortune, perhaps, but certainly to the high increase of his poeti- 
cal character, nature had mixed in Lcrrd Byron's system those passions which agitate the human 
heart with most violence, and which may be said to have hurried his bright career to an early 
close. There would have been little wisdom in measuring my force with so formidable an 
antagonist ; and I was as likely to tire of playing the second fiddle in the concert, as my au- 
dience of hearing me. Age also was advancing. I was growing insensible to those subjects cf 
excitation by which youth is agitated. I had around me the most pleasant but least exciting of 
all society, that of kind friends and an affectionate family. My circle o; einpk yment? was a 
nriirow one ; it occupied me constantly, and it became daily more difficult for me to interest 
myself in poetical composition : — 



I So 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



** How happily the days of Thalaba went by ! " 

Yet, though consciouc that I must be, in the opinion of good judges, inferior to the place I 
had for four or five years held in letters, and feeling alike that the latter was one to which I had 
only a temporary right, i could not brook the idea of relinquishing literary occupation, which 
had been so long my ch'-.ci diversion. Neither was I disposed to choose the alternative of sink- 
ing into a mere edi or ind commentator, though that was a species of labor which I had prac- 
tised, and vO which I was attached. But I could not endure to think that 1 might not, whether 
known or concealed, do something of more importance. My inmost thoughts were those ot the 
Trojan Captain in the galley race, — 

Non jam, prima peto Mnestheus, neque vincere certo ; 
Quanquam O ! — sed superent, quibus hoc. Neptune, dedisti ; 
Extremes pudeat rediisse : hoc vincite, cives, 
Et prohibete nefas "* — ^n. lib. v, 194. 

I had, indeed, some private reasons for my " Quanquam O ! " which were not worse than 
those of Mnestheus, I have already hinted that the materials were collected for a poem on the 
subject of Bruce, and fragments of it had been shown to some of my friends, and received with 
applause. Notwithstanding, therefore, the eminent success of Byron, and the great chance of 
his taking the wind out of my sails, there was, I judged, a species of cowardice in desisting from 
the task which I had undertaken, and it was time enough to retreat when the battle should be 
more decidedly lost. The sale of " Rokeby," excepting as compared with that of " The Lady 
of the Lake," was in the highest degree respectable ; and as it included fifteeen hundred quartos, 
in those quarto-reading days, the trade had no reason to be dissatisfied. 



Abbotsford, April, 1830. 



ROKEBY. 



CANTO FIRST. 
I. 

The Moon is in her summer glow, 
But hoarse and high the breezes blow, 
And, racking o'er her face, the cloud 
Varies tlie tincture of her shroud ; 
On Barnard's towers, and Tees's stream,' 
She changes as a guilty dream, 
When conscience, with remorse and fear, 
Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career. 
Her liglit seems now the blush of shame. 
Seems now fierce anger's darker flame, 
Shifting that shade, to come and go, 
Like apprehension's hurried glow ; 
Then sorrow's livery dims the air, 
And dies in darkness, like despair. 
Such varied hues the warder sees 
Reflected from the woodland Tees, 
Then from old Baliol's tower looks forth, 
See the clouds mustering in the north, 



Hears, upon turret-roof and wall. 
By fits the plashing rain-drop fall, 
Lists to the breeze's boding sotind, 
And wraps his shaggy mantle round. 



Those towers, which in the changeful gleam 
Throw murky shadows on the stream. 
Those towers of Barnard hold a guest, 
The emotions of whose troubled breast. 
In wild and strange confusion driven, 
Rival the flitting rack of heaven. 
Ere sleep stern Oswald's senses tied, 
Oft had he changed his weary side. 
Composed his limbs, and vainly sought 
By effort strong to banish thought. 
Sleep came at length, but with a train 
Of feelings true and fancies vain, 
Mingling, in wild disorder cast, 
The expected future with the past. 



I seek not now the foremost palm to again : 

Though yet — but ah 1 that haughty wish is vain I 

Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain. 

But to be last, the lags of all the race ! — 

Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace."— Drydb«. 



ROKEBY. 



i8i 



Conscience, anticipating time, 
■ Already rues the enacted crime. 
And calls her furi».5 forth, to shake 
The sounding scouige and hissing snake ; 
While her poor victim's outward throes 
Bear witness to his mental woes, 
And show whai lesson may be read 
Beside a sinner's restless bed. 



Thus Oswald's laboring feelings trace 
Strange changes in his sleeping face, 
Rapid and ominous as these 
With which the moonbeams tinge the 

Tees. 
There might be seen of shame the blush, 
There anger's dark and fiercer flush, 
"While the perturbed sleeper's hand 
Seem'd grasping dagger-knife, or brand. 
Relax'd that grasp, the heavy sigh, 
The tear in the half-opening eye. 
The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd 
That grief was busy in his breast ; 
Nor paused that mood — a sudden start 
Impell'd the life-blood from the heart : 
Features convulsed, and mutterings dread, 
Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead. 
That pang the painful slumber broke, 
And Oswald with a start awoke. 

IV. 

He woke, and fear'd again to close 
His eyelids in such dire repose ; 
He woke, — to watch the lamp, and tell 
From hour to hour the castle-bell. 
Or listen to the owlet's cry, 
Or the sad breeze tliat whistles by, 
Or catch, by fits, the tuneless rhyme 
With which the warder cheats the time, 
And envying think, how. when the sun 
Bids the poor soldier's watch be done, 
Couch'd on his straw, and fancy-free, 
He sleeps like careless infancy. 



Far townward sounds a- distant tread, 
And Osv.'ald, starting from his bed, 
Hath caught it, though no human ear,^ 
Unsharpen'dby revenge and fear, 
Could e'er distinguish horse's clank, 
Until it reach'd the castle bank. 
Now nigh and plain the sound appears, 
The warder's challenge now he hears. 
Then clanking chains and levers tell, 
That o'er the moat the drawbridge fell, 
And. in the castle court below, 
Voices are heard, and torches glow, 



As marshalling the stranger's way, 
Straight for the room where Oswald lay ; 
The cry was, — " Tidings from the host, 
Of weight— a messenger comes post." 
Stifling the tumult of his breast. 
His answer Oswald thus express'd— 
" Bring food and wine, and trim the fire-, 
Admit the stranger, and retire." 



The stranger came with heavy stride. 

The morion's plumes liis visage hide, 

And tlie buff-coat, an iimple fold. 

Mantles his form's gigantic mould.' 

Full slender answer deigned lie 

To Oswald's anxious courtesy, 

But mark'd, by a disdainful smile, 

He saw and scorn'd the petty wile, 

When Oswald changed the torch's place, 

Anxious that on the soldier's face 

Its partial lustre might be thrown, 

To show his looks, yet hide his own. 

His guest, the wliile, laid low aside 

The ponderous cloak of tough bull's hide^ 

And to the torch glanced broad and clear 

The corslet of a cuirassier ; 

Then from his brows the casque he drew. 

And from the dank plume dash'd th« 

dew, 
From gloves of mail relieved his hands. 
And spread them to the kindling brands 
And, turning to the genial board, 
Without a health, or pledge, or word 
Of meet and social reverence said, 
Deeply he drank, and fiercely fed ; 
As free from ceremony's sway. 
As famish'd wolf that tears his prey. 



With deep impatience, tinged with fear, 
His host beheld him gorge his cheer. 
And quaff the full carouse, that lent 
His brow a fiercer hardiment. 
Now Oswald stood a space aside. 
Now paced the room with hasty stride, 
In feverish agony to learn 
Tidings of deep and dread concern. 
Cursing each moment that his guest 
Protracted o'er his ruffian feast. 
Yet, viewing with alarm, at last. 
The end of that uncouth repast. 
Almost he seem'd their haste to rue, 
As, at his sign, his train withdrew, 
And left him v/ith the stranger, free 
To question of his mystery. 
Then did his silence long proclaim 
A struggle between fear and shame- 



l83 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



VIII. 

Much in the stranger's mien appears, 
To justify suspicious fears. 
On his dark face a scorching clime,* 
And toil, had done the work of time, 
Roughen'd the brow, the temples bared, 
And sable hairs with silver shared, 
Yet left — what age alone could tame — 
The lip of pride, the eye of flame ; 
The full-drawn lip that upward curl'd. 
The eye that seem'd to scorn the world. 
That lip had terror never blench'd ; 
Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quench'd 
The flash severe of swarthy glow, 
That mock'd at pain, and knew not woe. 
Inured to danger's direst form, 
Tornade and earthquake, flood and storm, 
Death had he seen by sudden blow, 
By wasting plague, by tortures slow, 
By mine or breach, by steel or ball, 
Knew all her shapes, and scorn'd them all. 



But yet, though Bertram's harden'dlook 

Unmoved, could blood and danger brook, 

Still worse than apathy had place 

On his swart brow and callous face ; 

For evil passions, cherish'd long. 

Had plough'd them with impressions 

strong. 
All that gives gloss to sin, all gay 
Light folly, past with youth away. 
But rooted stood, in manhood's hour, 
The weeds of vice without their flower. 
And yet the soil in which they grew, 
Had it been tamed when life was new. 
Had depth and vigor to bring forth 
The hardier fruits of virtuous worth. 
Not that, e'en then, his heart had known 
The gentler feelings' kindly tone; 
But lavish waste had been refined 
To bounty in his chasten'd m'nd, 
And lust of gold, that waste to feed, 
Been lost in love of glory's meed, 
And, frantic then no more, his pride 
Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide. 



Even now, by conscience unrestrain'd, 
Clogg'd by gross vice, by slaughter stain'd, 
Still knew his daring soul to soar. 
And mastery o'er the mind he bore ; 
For meaner guilt, or heart less hard, 
Ouail'd beneath Bertram's bold regard. 
And this felt Oswald, while in vain 
He strove, by many a winding train, 



To lure his sullen guest to show, 
Unask'd, the news he long'd to know, 
While on far other subject hung 
His heart, than falter'd from his tongue. 
Yet nought for that his guest did deign 
To note or spare his secret pain, 
But still, in stern and stubborn sort, 
Return'd him answer dark and short. 
Or started from the theme, to range 
In loose digression wild and strange, 
And forced the embarrass'd host to 
By query close, direct reply. 



A while he glozed upon the cause 
Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws, 
And Church Reform'd — but felt rebuke 
Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look, 
Then stammer'd — " Has a field been 

fought .? 
Has Bertram news of battle brought ? 
For sure a soldier, famed so far 
In foreign fields for feats of war, 
On eve of fight ne'er left the host, 
Until the field were won and lost.'' 
" Here, in your towers by circling Tees, 
You, Oswald Wycliffe, rest at ease ; 
Why deem it strange that others come 
To share such safe and easy home. 
From fields v/here danger, death, and toil, 
Are the reward of civil broil ? " — 
" Nay, mock not, friend I since well we 

know 
The near advances of the foe, 
To mar our northern army's work, 
Encamp'd before beleaguer'd York ; 
Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay, 
And must have fought — how went the 
day .? " 

XII. 

" Wouldst hear the tale? — On Marston 

heath s 
Met, front to front, the ranks of death , 
Flourish'd the trumpets fierce, and now 
Fired was each eye, and flush'd each brow : 
On either side loud clamors ring, 
' God and the Cause 1' — ' God and tk. 

King ! ' 
Right English all, they rush'd to blows, 
With nought to win, and all to lose. 
I could havelaugh'd — but lack'd the time— * 
To see, in phrenesy sublime, 
How the fierce zealots fought and bled, 
For king or state, as humor led ; 
Some for a dream of public good, ' 
Some for church-tippet, gown, and hood, 



ROKEBY. 



183 



Draining their veins, in death to claim 

A patriot's or a martyr's name. — 

Led Bertram Risingham the hearts, 

That counter'd there on adverse parts, 

No superstitious fool had I 

Sought El Dorados in the sky ! 

Chili had heard me through her states, 

And Lima oped her silver gates, 

Rich Mexico I had march'd through, 

And sack'd tlie splendors of Peru, 

Till sunk Pizarro's daring name. 

And, Cortez, thine, in Bertram's fame. "— 

" Still from the purpose wilt thou stray ! 

Good gentle friend, how went the day i* " — 

XIII. 

" Good am I deem'd at trumpet-sound, 

And good where goblets dance the round. 

Though gentle ne'er was join'd, till now, 

With rugged Bertram's breast and brow. — 

But I resume. The battle's rage 

Was like the strife which currents wage, 

Where Orinoco, in his pride, 

Rolls to the main no tribute tide. 

But 'gainst broad ocean urges far 

A rival sea of roaring war ; 

While, m ten thousand eddies driven. 

The billows fling their foam to heaven, 

And the pale pilot seeks in vain, 

Where rolls the river, where the main. 

Even thus upon the bloody field. 

The eddying tides of conflict wheel'd 

Ambiguous, till that heart of flame. 

Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came, 

Hurling against our spears a line 

Of gallants, fiery as their wine ; 

Then ours, though stubborn in their zeal. 

In zeal's despite began to reel. 

What wouldst thou more ? — in tumult tost. 

Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost. 

A thousand men, who drew the sword 

For both the Houses and the Word, 

Preach'd forth from hamlet, grange, and 

down, 
To curb the crosier and the crown. 
Now, stark and stiff, lie sti-etch'd in gore, 
And ne'er shall rail at mitre more. — 
Thus fared it, when I left the fight, 
With the good Cause and Commons' right." 

XIV. 
" Disastrous news I " dark Wycllffe said ; 
Assumed despondence bent his head, 
While troubled joy was in his eye. 
The well-feign'd sorrow to belie. — 
" Disastrous news— when needed most, 
Told ye not that your chiefs were lost ? 



Complete the woeful tale and say, 
Wlio fell upon that fatal day ; 
What leaders of repute and name 
Bought by their death a deathless fame. 
Jf such my direst foeman's doom, 
My tears shall dew his honor'd tomb.— 
No answer ? — Friend, of all our host, 
Thou know'st v/honi 1 should hate the 

most, 
Whom thou, too, once wert went to hate, 
Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate."' 
With look unmoved, — " Of friend or foe, 
Aught," answer'd Bertram, "would'st thou 

know. 
Demand in simple terms and plain, 
A soldier's answer shalt thou gain ; — 
For question dark, or riddle high, 
I have nor judgment nor reply." 

XV. 

The v/rath his art and fear suppress'd, 
Now blazed at once in Wycliffe's breast; 
And brave, from man so meanly born. 
Roused his hereditary scorn. 
" Wretch ! hast thou paid thy bloody 

debt? 
Philip of Mortham, lives he yet? 
False to thy patron or thine oath, 
Trait'rous or perjured, one or both. 
Slave 1 hast thou kept thy promise plight, 
To slay thy leader in the fight ? " 
Then from his seat the soldier sprung. 
And Wycliffe's hand he strongly wrung ; 
His grasp, as hard as glove of mail. 
Forced the red blood-drop from the nail — 
" A health ! " he cried ; and, ere he quaff' d, 
Flung from him Wycliffe's hand, and 

laugh'd : 
— " Now, Oswald Wycliffe, speaks thy 

heart ! 
Now play'st thou well thy genuine part I 
Worthy, but for thy craven fear, 
Like me to roam a buccanier. 
What reck'st thou of the Cause divine. 
If Mortham's wealth and lands be thine 
What carest thou for beleaguer'd York, 
If this good hand have done its work ? 
Or what, though Fairfax and his best 
Are reddening Marston's swarthy breast, 
If PhiHp Mortham with them lie, 
Lending his life-blood to the dyei* — 
Sit, then ! and as 'mid comrades free 
Carousing after victory, 
Wlien tales are told of blood and fear. 
That boys and women shrink to hear, 
From point to point I frankly tell 
The deed of death as it befell. 



i84 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" When purposed vengeance I forego, 

Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe ; 

And when an insult I forgive, 

Then brand me as a slave, and live ! — 

Philip of Mortham is with those 

Whom Bertram Kismgham calls foes ; 

Or whom more sure revenue attends, 

If number'd with ungrateful friends. 

As was his wont, ere battle glow'd. 

Along the marshall'd ranks he rode, 

And wore his vizor up the while. 

I saw his melancholy smile. 

When, full opposed in front, he knew 

Where Rokhby's kindred banner flew. 

' And thus,' he said, ' will friends divide ! '- 

I heard, and thought how, side by side, 

We two had turn'd the battle's tide, 

]n many a well-debated field. 

Where Bertram's breast was Philip's shielf 

I thought on Darien's deserts pale. 

Where death bestrides the evening gale, 

Hov/ o'er my friend my cloak I threw, 

And fenceless faced the deadly dew ; 

I thought on Quariana's cliff. 

Where, rescued from our foundering skiff. 

Through the white breakers' wrath I bore 

Exhausted Mortham to the shore ; 

And when his side an arrow found, 

I suck'd the Indian's venom'd wound. 

These thoughts like torrents rush'd along, 

To sweep away my purpose strong. 

XVII. 

" Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent; 
Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent. 
When Mortham bade me, as of yore, 
Be near him in the battle's roar, 
I scarcely saw the spears laid low, 
1 scarcely heard the trumpets blow ; 
Lost was the war in inward strife, 
Debating Mortham's death or life. 
'Twas then I thought, how, lured to come, 
As partner of his wealth and home, 
Years of piratic wandering o'er, 
With him 1 sought our native shore. 
But Mortham's lord grew far estranged 
From the bold heart with whom lie ranged; 
Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears, • 
Sadden'd and dimm'd descending years; 
The wily priests their victim sought, 
And damn'd each free-born deed and 

thought. 
Then must I seek another home, 
My license shook his sober dome; 
If gold he gave, in one wild day 
I revell'd thrice the sum away. 



An 

TT„ 



idle outcast then I stray'd. 
Unfit for tillage or for trade, 
Deem'd, lik i the steel of rusted lance, 
Useless and dangerou:: at once. 
The women fear'd my hardy look, 
At my approach the peaceful shook ; 
The merchant saw my glance of flame, 
And lock'd his hoards when Bertram 

came 1 
Each child of coward peace kept far 
From the neglected son of war. 



" But civil discord gave the call. 
And made my trade the trade of all. 
By Mortham urged, 1 came agam 
His vassals to the flght to train. 
What guerdon waited on my care? 
I could not cant of creed or prayer; 
Sour fanatics each trust obtain'd. 
And 1, dishonor'd and disdain'd, 
Gain'd but the high and happy lot. 
In these poor arms to front the shot! — < 
A.ll this thou know'st, thy gestures tell ; 
Yet hear it o'er and mark it well. 
'Tis honor bids me now relate 
Each circumstance of Mortham's fate. 



from 



XIX. 

the tongue that slowly 



"Thought 

part, 
Glance quick as lightning through the heart 
As my spur press'd my courser's side, 
Philip of Mortham's cause was tried, 
And, ere the charging squadrons mix'd- 
His plea was cast, his doom was fix'd. 
I watch'd him through the doubtful fray, 
That chang'd as March's moody day. 
Till, like a stream that bursts its bank, 
Fierce Rupert thunder'd on our flank, 
■'Twas then, 'midst tumult, smoke, 3 N 

strife, 
Wliere eacli man fought for death or life,. 
'Twas then I fired my petronel. 
And Mortham, steed and rider, fell. 
One dying look he upward cast, 
Of wrath and anguish — 'twas his last. 
Tlimk not that there I stopp'd, to view 
What of the battle should ensue; 
But ere 1 clear'd that bloody press. 
Our northern horse ran masterless; 
Mo'nckton and Mitton told the news, 
How troops of roundheads choked 

Ouse, 
And many a bonnyScot, aghast. 
Spurring his palfrey northward, past, 



th« 



ROKEBY. 



185 



Cursing the day when zeal or meed 
First hired their Leshe o'er the Tweed.^ 
Yet when I reach'd the banks of Swale, 
Had rumor learn'd another tale ; 
With his barb'd horse, fresh tidings say, 
Stout Cromwell has redeem'd the day J 
But whether false the news, or true, .. 
Oswald, 1 reck as light as you." 

XX. 

Not then l)y Wycliffe might be shown, 
How liis prid; startled at the tone 
!n which his complice, fierce and free, 
Asserted guilt's equality. 
In smoothest terms his speech he wove, 
Of endless friendship, faith, and love; 
Promised and vow'd in courteous sort. 
But Bertram broke professions short. 
" Wycliffe, be sure not here I stay, 
No, scarcely till the rising day ; 
Warn'd by the legends of my youth, 
I trust not an associate's truth. 
Do not my native dales prolong 
Of Percy Rede tii; tragic song, 
Train'i forward to his bloody fall. 
By Girs^nfie'.d, that treacherous Hall .'^ 
Oft, by :h: Pnngie's haunted side. 
The shepherd see6 his spectre glide. 
And near th: ^pot that gave me name. 
The moated m und of Risingham, 
Where Ree:l upon her margm sees 
Sweet Woodburne's cottages and trees, 
Som : ancient sculptor's art lias shown 
An cutlaw's image on the stone ;9 
Unmatch'd in strength, a giant he. 
With quiver'd back, and kirtled knee. 
Ask I10W h: died, that hunter bold, 
The tameless monarch of the wold. 
And age and mfancy can tell. 
By brother's treachery he fell. 
Thus warn'd by legends of my youth, 
1 trust to no associate's truth. 

XXI. 

'• When last we reason'd of this deed. 
Nought, I bethink me, was agreed. 
Or by what rule, or when, or where. 
The wealth of Mort'iam we should share. 
Then list, while I the portion name, 
Our differing laws give each to claim. 
Thou, vassal sworn to England's throne. 
Her rules of lieritage must own ; 
They deal thee, as to nearest heir. 
Thy kinsman's lands and livings fair, 
And these 1 yield : — do thou revere 
The statues of the Buccanier.'"' 
Friend to the sea, and foeman sworn 
To all that on her waves arc borne, 



When falls a mate in battle broil. 
His comrades heir his portion'd spoil; 
When dies in figlit a "daring foe, 
He claims his wealth who struck the blow; 
And either rule to me assigns 
Those spoils of Indian seas and mines, 
Hoarded in Mortham's caverns dark; 
Ingot of gold and diamond spark, 
Chalice and plate from chmxhes borne, 
And gems from shrieking beauty torn, 
Each string of pearl, each silver bar. 
And all tlie u'ealth of western war. 
I go to search, where, dark and deep. 
Those Trans-atlantic treasures sleep. 
Thou must along — for, lacking thee. 
The heir will scarce find entrance free; 
And then farewell. 1 haste to try 
Each varied j^leasure wealth can buy ; 
When cloy'd each wish, those wars afford 
Fresh work for Bertram's restless sword." 

XXII. 

An undecided answer hung 
On Oswald's hesitating tongue. 
Despite his craft, he heard with awe 
This ruffian stabber fix the law ; 
While his own troubled passions veer 
Through hatred, joy, regr.t, and fear : — 
Joy'd at the soul that Bertram flies, 
He grudged the murderer's mighty prize, 
Hated his pride's presampti us tone. 
And fear'd to wend vv;th him alone. 
At length, that middle C( urb t • bteer, 
To cowardice and craft so dear, 
" His charge," he said, " 'a-; uld ili ali .w 
His absence from the fortress now: 
Wilfrid on Bertram sh; uld attend, 
His son should journey w.tu r.-.s '^ritnd." 

XXIII. 

Contempt kept Bertram's anger down, 

.And wreathed to savage smile his frown. 

" Wilfrid, or thou — 'tis one to me. 

Whichever bears the golden key. 

Yet think not but 1 mark, and smile 

To mark, thy poor and selfish wile! 

If injurv from me you fear. 

What, Osv.'ald Wycliffe, shields thee hcrc.^ 

I've sprung from walls .more high thaij inesc, 

I've swam through deeper btrc;?.nrib I. .at 

Tee's. 
Might not I siab ihcc, ere one veil 
Could rouse the distant sentm^l? 
Start not— It i^ n t my design, 
But, if it wer^, weak fence wer thiae; 
And, tru':t me, that, in tim of need. 
This hand hath done mor. desperate deed. 



i86 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Go, haj:te and rouse thy slumbering son ; 
Time calls, and 1 must needs be gone." 

XXIV. 

X>fought cf his sire's ungenerous part 
Polluted Wilfrid's gentle heart j 
A heart too soft from early life 
To hold with fortune needful strife. 
ifis sire, while yet a hardier race 
Of numrrous sons were Wyclifte's grace, 
On Wilfrid set contemptuous brand, 
I'^or feeble heart and forceless hand ; 
But a fond mother's care and joy 
Were centred in her sickly boy. 
No touch of childhood's frolic mood 
Show'd the elastic spring of blood ; 
Hour after hour he loved to pour 
On Shakspeare's rich and varied lore, 
But turn'd from martial scenes and light, 
From FalstafY's feast and Percy's fight, 
To ponder Jaques' moral strain, 
And muse with Hamlet, v/ise in vain ; 
And weep himself to soft repose 
O'er gentle Desdemona's woes. 

XXV. 

In youth he sought not pleasures found 
By youth in horse, and hawk, and hound, 
But loved the ciuiet joys that n'aka 
By lonely stream and silent lake ; 
In Deepdale's solitude to lie, 
VVhere all is cliff and copse and sky ; 
T.) climb Catcastle's dizzy peak. 
Or icne Pendragon's mound to seek. 
Such -.vas his wont ; and there his dream 
boar d on some wild fantastic theme. 
Of faithful love, or ceaseless spring. 
Till Contemplation's wearied wing 
The enthusiast could no more sustain, 
And sad he sunk to earth again. 

XXVI. 

He loved — as many a lay can tell. 
Preserved in Stanmore's lonely dell ; 
For his was minstrel's skill, he caught 
Thj ait unteachable, untaught; 
He loved — his soul did nature frame 
F r love, and fancy nursed the flame ; 
Vainly he loved — for seldom swain 
Of such soft mould is loved again ; 
Silent hj loved — in every gaze 
vVia passion, friendship in his phrase. 
So mused his life away — till died 
His i^rethren all, their father's pride. 
Wilfrid IS now tho cnly heir 
Of all his stratagems and care. 
And destined, darkling, to pursue 
Ambition's maze by Oswald's clue. 



XXVII. 

Wilfrid must love and woo the bright 
Matilda, heir of Rokeby's knight. 
To love her was an easy best, 
The secret empress of his breast ; 
To woo her was a harder task 
To one that durst not hope or ask. 
Ye* all Matilda could, she gave 
In pity to her gentle slave ; 
Friendship, esteem, and fair regard, 
And praise, the poet's best reward ! 
She read the tales his taste approved, 
And sung the lays he framed or loved; 
Yet, lothi to nurse the fatal flame 
Of hopeless love in friendship's name, 
In kind caprice she oft withdrew 
The favoring glance to friendship due, 
Then grieved to see her victim's pain, 
And gave the dangerous smiles again. 

XXVill. 

So did the suit of Wilfrid stand. 

When war's loud summons waked the laad. 

Three banners, floating o'er the Tees, 

The woe-fore'ooding peasant sees ; 

In concert oft they braved of old 

The bordering Scot's incursion bold; 

Frowning defiance in their pride, 

Their vassals now and lords divide. 

From his fair hall on Greta banks. 

The Knight of Pvokeby led his ranks. 

To aid the valiant northern Earls, 

Who drew the sword for royal Charles. 

Mortham, by marriage near allied, — 

His sister had been Rokeby's bride. 

Though long before the civil fray, 

In peaceful grave the lady lay, — 

Philip of Mortham raised his band, 

.■\nd march'd at Fairfax's command ; 

While Wychffe, bound by many a train 

Of kindred art with wily Vane, 

Less prompt to brave the bloody field, 

Made Barnard's battlements his shield, 

Secured them with his Lunedale powers, 

And for the Commons held the towers. 



The lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight 
Waits in his halls the event of fight ; 
For England's v.-ar revered the claim 
Of every improtected name. 
And spared, amid its fiercest rage, 
Childhccd ai\d womanhood and age. 
But Wilfrid, son to Rokeby's foe, 
Must the dear privilege forego, 
By Greta's side, in evening gray, 
To steal upon Matilda's way, 



ROKEBY. 



187 



Striving, with fond hypocrisy 
For careless step and vacant eye ; 
Calming each anxious look and glance, 
To give the meeting all to chance, 
Or framing, as a fair excuse, 
The book, the pencil, or the muse: 
Something to give, to sing, to say, 
Some modern tale, some ancient lay. 
Then, while the long'd-for minutes last, — 
Ah 1 minutes quickly over-past ! 
Recording each expression free, 
Of kind or careless courtesy, 
Each friendhy look, each softer tone, 
As food for fancy wlien alone. 
All this is o'er — but still unseen, 
Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green, 
To watch Matilda's wonted round, 
While springs his heart at every sound. 
She comes 1 'tis but a passing sight. 
Yet serves to cheat his weary night ; 
She comes not — He will wait the hour, 
When her lamp lightens in the tower ; 
'Tis something yet. if, as she past, 
Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. 
" What is my Ufe, my hope ? " he said ; 
*' Alas ! a transitory shade." 

XXX. 

Thus wore his life, though reason strove 
For mastery in vain with love, 
Forcing upon his thoughts the sum 
Of present woe and ills to come, 
While still he turn'd impatient ear 
From Trutlrs intrusive voice severe. 
Gentle, indifferent, and subdued. 
In ail but this, immoved he view'd 
Each outward change of ill and'good : 
But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild, 
Was Fancy's spoil'd and wayward child; 
In her bright car she bade him ride, 
With one fair form to grace his side, . 
Or, in some wild and lone retreat, 
Flung her high spells around his seat, 
Bathed in her dews his languid head. 
Her fairy mantle o'er him spread. 
For him her opiates gave to flow, 
Which he who tastes can ne'er forego, 
And placed him in her circle, free 
From every stem reality, 
Till, to the Visionary, seem 
Her day-dreams truth, and truth a dream. 

XXXI. 

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains. 
Winning from Reason's hand the reins. 
Pity and woe ! for such a mind 
Is soft, contemplative, and kind ; 



And woe to those who train such youth, 
And spare to press the rights of truth, 
The mind to strengthen and anneal, 
While on the stithy. glows the steel! 
O teach him while your lessons last, 
To judge the present by the past ; 
Remind him of each wish pursued, 
How rich it glow'd with promised good; 
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd. 
How soon his hopes possession cloy'dl 
Tell him, we play unequal game, 
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim ; 
And, ere he strip him for her race, 
Show the conditions of the chase. 
Two sisters by tlie goal are set. 
Cold Disappointment and Regret ; 
One disenchants the winner's eye:-. 
And strips of all its worth the prize. 
While one augments its gaudy show, 
More to enhance the loser's woe. 
The victor sees his fairy gold, 
Transform'd, when won, to drossy mold, 
But still the vanquish' d mourns his loss, 
Arid rues, as gold, that glittering dross. 

XXXII. 

More wouldst thou know — yon tower sur- 
vey, 
Von couch unpress'd since parting day, 
Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow gleana 
Is mingling witK die cold moonbeam. 
And yon thin form ! — the hectic red 
On his pale cheek unequal spread ; 
The head rechn'd, the loosen'd hair. 
The limbs relaxed, the mournful air. — 
See, he looks up ; a woeful smile 
Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while,— 
'Tis Fancy v/akes some idle' thought, 
To gild the ruin she has wrought ; ^ 
For, like the bat of Indian brakes, 
Her pinions fan the wound she makes, 
And soothing thus the dreamer's jmin. 
She drinks his life-blood from tlie vein. 
Now to the lattice turn his eyes. 
Vain hope ! to see the sun arise. 
The moon with clouds is still o'ercast. 
Still howls by fits the stormy blast ; 
Another hour must wear avv-ay, 
Ere the East kindle into day, 
And hark ! to waste that weary hour, 
He tries the minstrel's magic power. 

XXXIII. 



To the Moon. 
Hail to thy cold and clouded beam, 
Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky / 



i88 



scorrs poetical works. 



Hail, though the mist that o'er thee stream 
Lend to tiiv brow their sullen dye ! 

How should thy pure and peaceful eye 
Untroubled view our scenes below, 

Or hew a tearless beam supply 
To light a world of war and woe ! 

Fair Queen ! I will not blame thee now, 

As once by Greta's fairy side 
Each little cloud that dimm'd thy brow 

Did then an angeFs beauty hide. 
And of the shades I then could chide, 

Still are the thoughts to memory dear, 
For, while a softer strain I tried, 

They hid my blush, and calm'd my fear. 

Then did I swear thy ray serene 

Was form'd to light some lonely dell, 
By two fond lovers only seen, 

Reflected from the crystal well. 
Or sleeping on the mossy cell, 

Or quivering on the lattice bright, 
Or glancing on their couch, to tell 

How swiftly wanes the summer night ! 

XXXIV. 

He starts — a step at this lone hour ! 
A voice — his father seeks the tower, 
With haggard look and troubled sense, 
Fresh from his dreadful conference. 
" Wilfrid — what, not to sleep addressed ? 
Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest. 
Mortham has fall'n on Marston-moor ; 
Bertram brings warrant to secure 
His treasures, bought by spoil and blood, 
For the State's use and public good. 
The menials will thy voice obey j 
Let his commission hav^ its way, 
In every point, in every word." — 
Then, in a whisper, — " Take thy sword J 
Bertram is — wh?.t I must not tell. 
I hear his liasty step — farewell I " 



CANTO SECOND. 



Far in the chambers of the west, 
The gale had sigh'd itself to rest ; 
The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
But pale, and soon to disappear. 
The thin gray clouds wax dimly light 
On Brusleton and Houghton height ; 
And the rich dale, that eastward lay. 
Waited the wakening touch of day, 
To give its woods and cultured plain. 
And towers and spires, to light agaia. 



But, westward, Stanrnore's shapeless swell, 
And Lunedale v/ild, and Kelton-fell, 
And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
And Arkingarth, lay dark afar, 
While, as a livelier twilight falls, 
Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd walls. 
High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale, 
The sovereign of the lovely vale. 

II. 
What prospects, from his watch-tower high 
Gleam gradual on the warder's eye ! — 
Far sweeping to the east, he sees 
Down his deep woods the course of Tees,^* 
And tracks his wanderings by the steam 
Of summ.er vapors from the stream ; 
And ere he paced his destined hour 
By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower, 
These silver mists shall melt away, 
And dew the woods with glittering spray. 
Then in broad lustre shall be shov.-n 
The mighty trench of living stone, 
And each huge trunk that, from the side, 
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide, 
Where Tees, fuil m.any a fathom low, 
Wears with his rage no common foe ; 
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here. 
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, 
Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, 
O'er solid sheets of marble gray. 

III. 
Nor Tees alone, in davt'ning bright, 
Shall rusli upon the ravish'd sight ; 
But many a tributary stream 
Each from its own dark dell shall gleam ; 
Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers, 
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers ; 
The rural brook of Egliston, 
And Balder, named frorri Odin's son ; 
And Greta, to whose banks ere long 
We lead the lovers of the song ; 
And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild. 
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring cliild, 
And last and least, but loveliest still, 
Romantic Deepdale's slender rilL 
Who in that dim-wood glen hath stray'd. 
Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade ? 
Who, wandering there, hath sought te 

change. 
Even for that vale so stem and strange, 
Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent, 
Through her green copse hke spires art 

sent ? 
Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, 
Thy scenes and story to combine I 
Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strai"^- 
List to the deeds of other days ; 



ROKEBY, 



1^59 



'Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st the 

cave, 
The refuge of thy champion brave ; 
Giving eacli rock its storied tale, 
Pouring a lay for every dale, 
Knitting, as with a moral band, 
Thy native legends with thy land, 
To lend each scene the interest higli 
Which genius bsams from Beauty's eye. 



Bertram awaited not the sight 

Which sun -rise shows from Barnard's 

height, 
But from the towers, preventing day, 
With Wilfrid took his early way. 
While misty dawn, and moonbeam pale, 
Still mingled in the silent dale. 
£y Barnard's bridge of stately stone, 
The southern bank of Tees they won ; 
Their winding path then eastward cast, 
And Egliston's gray ruins pass'd ; ^^ 
Each on his < wn deep visions bent, 
Silent and sad they cnward went. 
Well may you think that Bertram's mood, 
To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude ; 
Well may you think bo'.d Risingham 
Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tamo; 
And small the intercourse, 1 w-een, 
Such uncongenial souls betv/cen. 



Stern Bertram shunned the neairer waj^. 
Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay, 
And, skirting high the valley's ridge, 
They cro^s'd by Greta's ancient bridge, 
Descending where her waters wind 
Free for a space and unconfined, 
As, 'scaped from Brignall's dark-wood glen, 
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den. 
There, as his eye glanced o'er tb.e mound. 
Raised by that Legion ^^ long renown'd, 
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim. 
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, 
" Stern sons of war ! '" sad Wilfrid sigh'd, 
'* Beh' Id the b:'ast of Roman pride ! 
"What now cf all your toils are known .? 
A grassy trench, a broken stone! " — 
This to himself ; for moral strain 
To Bertram were addiess'd in vain. 



Of different mood, a deeper sigh 
Awoke, wiien Rokeby's turrets high '* 
Were northward in the dawning seen 
To rear them o'er the thicket green. 



O then, though Spenser's self had stray'd 
Beside him through the lovely glade, 
Lending his rich luxuriant glow 
Of fancy, all its charms to show. 
Pointing the stream rejoicing free, 
As captive set at liberty, 
Flashing her sparkling waves abroad, 
And clamoring joyful on her road ; 
Pointing where, up the sunny banks, 
The trees retire in scatter'd ranks. 
Save where, advanced before tlie rest, 
On knoll or hillock rears his crest, 
Lonely and huge, the giant Oak, 
As champions, when tlieir band is broke, 
Stand forth to "uardthe rearward post, 
The bulwark or the scatter'd host — 
All this, and more, might Spenser say, 
Yet waste in vain his magic lay, 
While Vv'^ilfrid eyed the distant tower. 
Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower. 



The open vale is soon passed o'er, 

Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more ; 

Sinking 'mid Greta's thickets deep, 

A wild and darker course they keep, 

A stern and lone, yet lovely road. 

As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode ! ^> 

Broad shadows o'er thjir pasbag3 fell, 

Deeper and narrower grew ih; deli ; 

It seem'd some mountain, rent and river-, 

A channel for the stream had g:ver. 

So high the cliffs of limestone ;r3y 

Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way, 

Yielding, along their rugged base, 

A flinty footpath's niggard srace, 

Where lie, who winds 'twixt rock and wav^ 

May hear the headlong torrent rave, 

And like a steed in frantic fit. 

That flings the froth from curb and bit, 

May view her chaf; her waves to spray, 

O'er every rock that bars her way, 

Till foam-globes on her.eddies ride. 

Thick as the schemes of human pride 

Tliat down life's current drive amain, 

As frail, as frothy, and as vain ! 

VIII. 

The cliffs that rear their haughty head 
High o'er the river's darksome loed, 
Were now all naked, v.-ild, ar.d grav, 
Now v^aving all v>;ith green wrcd spray ; 
Here trees to every crevice clung. 
And o'er the dell their branches hung ; 
And there, all vplirter'd and uneven. 
Tiie siiiver'd r cks nscend to hra'-'v-n ; 
Oft, too, the ivy svi'ath'd their br.ast. 
And v.Tcrithed its sarland round their cr&it, 



igo 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Or frcm the spires bade loosely flare 
Its tcr.drils in the middle air. 
As pcnr.c..:s -went to wave of old 
O'er the high feast of Barcn bold, 
When rcvell'd loud the feudal rout, 
And the arch'd halls return'd their shout 
Such and more wild is Greta's roar, 
And such the echoes from her shore. 
And so the ivied banners' gleam. 
Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream. 



Now from the stream the rocks recede, 

But leave between no sunny mead, 

No, nor the spot of pebbly sand, 

Oft found by such a mountain strand ; 

Forming such warm and dry retreat. 

As fancy deems the lonely seat, 

Where hermit wandering from his cell, 

His rosary might love to tell. 

But here, 'twixt reck and river, grew ' 

A dismal grove of sable yew, 

With whose sad tints were mingled seen 

The blighted fir's sepulchral green. 

Seem'd that the trees their shadows cast, 

The earth that nourished them to blasi ; 

For never knev/ that swarthy grove 

The verdant hue that fairies kve : 

Nor wilding green, nor woodland flower, 

Arose within its baleful bower : 

The dank and sable earth receives 

Its only carpet from the leaves, 

That, from the withering branches cast, 

Bestrew'd the ground with every blast. 

Though now the sun was o'er the hill, 

In this dark spot 'twas twilight still, 

Save that on Greta's farther side 

Some straggling beams through copsewood 

glide; 
And wild and savage contrast made 
That dingle's deep and funeral shade, 
With the bright tir^ts of early day, 
Which, giimn-.ering through Uie ivy spray. 
On the opposing siuninit lay. 



The 'ated peasant shunn'd the dell : 

For Superstition wont to tell 

Of many a grisly sound and sight. 

Scaring its path at dead of night. 

When Christmas logs blaze high and wide. 

Such wonders speed the festal tide ; 

While Curiosity and Fear, 

Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near. 

Till childhood's cheek no longer glows, 

And village maidens lose the rose. 



The thrilling interest rises higher, 

The circle closes nigh and nigher, 

And' shuddering glance is cast behind, 

As louder moans the wintry wind, 

Believe, that fitting scene was laid 

For such wild tales in Mortham glade ; 

For who had seen, on Greta's side, 

By that dim light fierce Bertram stride, 

In such a spot, at such an hour, — 

If touch'd by Superstition's power, 

I\Iight well have deem'd that Hell had 

given 
A murderer's ghost to upper Heaven, 
While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to glide 
Like his pale victim by his side. 

XI. 

Nor think lo village swains alone 
Are these unearthly terrors known ; 
For not to rank nor sex confined 
Is this vain ague of the mind : 
Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard, 
i 'Gainst faith, and love, and pity barr'd, 
I Have quaked, like aspen leaves in May, 

Beneath its universal sway. 
I Bertram had listed many a tale 
I Of wonder in his native dale, 
That in his secret soul retain'd 
The credence they in childhood gain'd i 
Nor less his wild adventurous youth 
Believed in every legend's truth ; 
Learn'd when, beneath the tropic gale, 
Full swell'd the vessel's steady sail, 
.And the broad Indian moon her light 
Pour'd on the watch of middle night. 
When seamen love to hear and tell 
Of portent, prodigy, and spell : 
j What gales are sold on Lapland's shore, 
1 How whistle rash bids tempests roar,'^ 
j Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite, 
{ Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light ; '7 

Or of that Phantom Ship, whose torm 
j Shoots like a meteor through the storm ; 
When the dark scud comes driving hard 
I And lower'd is every topsail yard, 
j And canvas, wove in earthly looms, 
: No more to brave the storm presumes \ 
Then 'mid the war of sea and sky. 
Top and top-gallant hoisted high. 
Full spread and crowded every sail. 
The Demon Frigate braves the gale ; ^' 
And well the doom'd spectators know 
The harbinger of wreck and woe. 

XII. 

Then, too, were told, in stifled tone, 
Marvels and oraens all their own : 



ROfCEBY. 



191 



How, by some desert isle or key,'9 
Where Spaniards wrought their cruelty, 
Or where the savage pirate's mood 
Repaid it home in deeds of blood, 
Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear 
Appaii'd the listening Buccanier, 
Whose light-arm'd shallop anchor'd lay 
In ambush by the lonely bay. 
The groan of grief, the shriek of pain. 
Ring from the moonlight groves of cane ; 
The fierce adventurer's heart they scare, 
Who wearies memory for a prayer, 
Curses the road-stead, and with gale 
Of early morning lifts the sail, 
To give, in thirst of blood and prey, 
A legend for another bay. 



Thus, as a man, a youth, a child, 
Train'd in the mystic and the wild. 
With this on Bertram's soul at times 
Rush'd a dark feeling of his crimes ; 
Such to his troubled soul their form. 
As the pale Death-ship to the storm, 
And such their cmen dim and dread, 
As shrieks and voices of the dead.— 
That pang, whose tran^tory force 
Hover'd 'twixt horror and remorse ; 
That pang, perchance, his bosom press'd, 
As Wilfrid sudden he address'd : — 
" Wilfrid, this glen is never trode 
Until the sun rides high abroad ; 
Yet twice havi I beheld to-day 
A Form, that seem'd to dog cur way ; 
Twice fri m my glance it seem'd to flee, 
And shroud itself by cliff or tree. 
How think'st thcu ? — Is our path way-laid ? 
Or hath thy sire .Tiy trust betrayed ? 
If so " — Ere, starting from his ^ream, 
That turn'd upon a gentler theme, 
Wilfrid had roused him to reply, 
Bertram sprung forward, shouting high, 
*' Whatc'cr thou art, thou now shalt 

stand ! " 
And forth he darted, sword in hand. 

XIV. 

As bursts the levin, in his wrath 

He shot hini down the sounding path ; 

Rock, wood, and stream, rang wildly out. 

To his loud step and savage shout. 

Seems that the object of his race 

Hath scaled the cliffs ; his frantic chase 

Sidelong hs turns, and now 'tis bent 

Right up the rock's tall battlement ; 

Straining each sinew to ascend, 

Foot, hand, and knee, their aid must lend. 



Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay, 
Views from beneath his dreadful way : 
Now to the oak's warp'd roots he clings^ 
Now trusts his weight to ivy strings ; 
Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare 
An unsupported leap in air; 
Hid in the shrubby rain-course now. 
You mark him by the crashing bough, 
And by his corslet's sullen clank. 
And by the stones spurn'd from the ban'K, 
And by the hawk scared from her nest, 
And ravens croaking o'er their guest. 
Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay 
The tribute of his bold essay. 

XV. 

See ! he emerges— desperate now 

All farther course — Yon beetling brow, 

In cragged nakedness sublime. 

What heart or foot shall dare to climb ? 

It bears no tendril for his clasp. 

Presents no angle for his grasp : 

Sole stay his foot may rest upon, 

Is yon earth-bedded jetting stcne. 

Balanced on such precarious pr p. 

He strains his grasp to re?.ch the tcp. 

Just as the dangerous stretch h; makes^ 

By Heaven, his faithlets fcctstool shakes! 

Beneath his tottering bulk itbends. 

It sways, * * it loosens, * * it descends! 

And downward holds its headlong way, 

Crashing o'er rock and copswocde spray. 

Loud thunders shake the echoing deil ! — 

Fell it alone? — alone it fell. 

Just on the very verge of fate. 

The hardy Bertram's falling weight 

He trusted to his sinewy hands. 

And on the top unharm'd he stands ! — 

XVI. 

Wilfrid a safer path pursued ; 

At intervals where, loughly hew'd, 

Rude steps ascending from the dell 

Render'd the cliffs accessible. 

By circuit slow he thus attain'd 

The height that Risingham had gain'd, 

And when he issued from the wood. 

Before the gate of Mortham stood ,-° 

'Twas a fair scene ! the ::.unbeam lay 

On battled tower and portal gray: 

And from the grassy slope he sees 

The Greta flow to meet the Tees ; 

Where, issuing from her darksome bed. 

She caught the eastern morning's red, 

And through the softening vale below 

RoU'd her bright waves in rosy glow, 

All blushing to her bridal bed, 

Like some shy maid in convent bredj 



192 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay, 
Sing forth lier nuptial roundelay. 

XVII. 

'Twas sweetly sung that roundelay; 
That summer morn shone bright and gay ; 
But morning beam, and wild-bird's call, 
Awaked not Mortham's silent hall. 
No porter, by the low-brov/'d gate, 
Tpok in the wonted niche his seat ; 
To the paved court no peasant drew ; 
Waked to their toil no menial crew ; 
The maiden's carol was not heard, 
As to her morning task she fared : 
In tlie void offices around. 
Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound ; 
Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh, 
Accused the lagging groom's delay ; 
Untrimm'd, undress' d, neglected now, 
Was alley'd walk and orchard bough •, 
All spoke the master's absent care, 
All spoke neglect and disrepair. 
South of the gate an arrow flight, 
Two mighty elms their limbs unite, 
As if a canopy to spread 
O'er the lone dwelling of the dead ; 
For their huge boughs in arches bent 
Above a massive monument, 
Carv'd o'er in ancient Gothic wise, 
With many a scutcheon and device ; 
There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom, 
Bertram stood pondering by the tomb. 

XVIII 

"It vanisli'd, like a flitting ghost ! 
Behind this tomb," he said, " 'twas lost — 
This tomb, where oft I decm'd lies stored 
Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard. 
'Tis true, th; aged servants said 
Here his lamented wife is laid ; 
But weightier reasons may be guess'd 
For their lord's strict and stem behest. 
That none should on his steps intrude, 
Whene'er he sought this solitude. — 
An ancient mariner I knew, 
'vVhat time I sail'd with Morgan's crew. 
Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake 
Of Raleigh, Frobislier, and Drake ; 
Adventurous hearts ! who barter'd bold, 
Their English steel for Spanish gold. 
Trust not, w ;Uid his experience say, 
Captain or c mrade with your prey ; 
But seek some channel, when, at full, 
The moon gilds skeleton and skull : 
Th-ere dig, and tomb your precious heap. 
And bid the dead ycur 'reasuro keep ;"' 
Sure stewards they, if f.ttmg spell 
Their ssrvice to thj task compel. 



Lacks there such charnel? — kill a slave, 
Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave ; 
And bid his discontented ghost 
Stalk nightly on his lonely post. — 
Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween, 
Is in my morning vision seen." 

XIX 

Wilfrid, who scorn 'd the legend v/ild,^ 

In mingled mirth and pity smiled, 

Much marvelling that a breast so bold 

In such fond tale belief should hold ; 

But yet of Bertram sought to know 

The apparition's form and show. — 

The power within the guilty breast, 

Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd, 

That unsubdued and lurking hes 

To take tha felon by surprise, 

And force him, as by magic spell. 

In his despite his guilt to tell,^^ — 

That power in Bertram's breast awoke ; 

Scarce conscious he was heard, he spoke ^ 

" 'Twas Mortham's form, from loot to 

head ! 
His morion, witli»the plume of red. 
His shape, his mien — 'twas Mortliam, right 
As when I slew him in the fight." — 
" Thou slay him .'' — thou t " — With con- 
scious start 
He heard, then mann'd his haughty heart — 
" I slew him t — I ! — I had forgot 
Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the plot. 
Cut it is spoken— nor will I 
Deed done, or spoken word, deny. 
I slew him ; I ! for thankless pride ; 
'Twas by this hand that Mortham died." 

XX. 

Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart, 

Averse to every active part. 

But most averse to martial broil, 

From danger shrunk, and turn'd from toil. 

Yet the meek lover of the lyre 

Nursed one brave spark of noble fire, 

Against ^njustice, fraud, or wrong, 

His blood beat high, his hand wax'd strong. 

Not his the nerves that could sustain 

Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain ; 

But, when that spark blazed forth to flame, 

He rose superior to his frame. 

And now it came, that generous mood : 

And, in full current of his blood, 

On Bertram he laid desperate hand. 

Placed firm his foot, and^drew his brand. 

" Should every fiend, to whom thou'rt sold, 

Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold. — 

Arouse there, ho ! take spear and sword I 

Attach the murderer of your f-ord ! " 



ROKEBY. 



i93 



A moment, fix'd as by a spell, 

Stood Bertram — It seem'd miracle, 

That one so feeble, soft, and tame 

Set grasp on warlike Risingham. 

But when he felt a feeble stroke, 

The fiend within the ruffian woke I 

To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand, 

To dash him headlong on the sand, 

Was but one moment's work, — one more 

Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's gore; 

But, in the instant it arose. 

To end his life, his Jove, his woes. 

A warlike form, that mark'd the scene, 

Presents his rapier sheathed between. 

Parries the fast-descending blow. 

And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe; 

Nor then unscabbarded his brand, 

But, sternly pointing with his hand, 

With monarch's voice forbade tlie fight, 

And motion'd Bertram from his sight. 

" Go, and repent," he said, " while time' 

Is given thee ; add not crime to crime." 

XXII. 

Mute, and uncertain, and amazed, 

As on a vision Bertram gazed ! 

'Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and high, 

His sinewy frame, his fafcon eye. 

His look and accent of command, 

The martial gesture of his hand. 

His stately form>epare-built and tall. 

His war-bleach'd locks— 'twas Mortham all. 

Through Bertram's dizzy brain career 

A thousand thoughts, and all of fear ; 

His wavering faith i-eceived not quite 

The form he saw as Mortham's sprite, 

But more he fear'd it, if it stood 

His lord, in living flesh and blood. — 

What spectre can the charnel send, 

So dreadful as an mjured friend.? 

Then, too, the habit of command, 

Used by the leader of the band, 

When Risingham, for many a day, 

Had marcl'd and fought beneath his sway, 

Tamed him— and, with reverted face, 

Backwards he bore his sullen pace ; 

Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham stared, 

And dark as rated mastiff glared ; 

But when the tramp of steeds was heard. 

Plunged in the glen, and disappear'd ;— 

Nor longer there the warrior stood. 

Retiring eastward through the wood ; 

But first to Wilfrid warnmg gives, 

*• Tell thou to none that Mortham lives." 



Still rung these words m Wilfrid's ear. 
Hinting he knew not what of fear ; 
When nearer came the coursers' tread, 
And, with his father at their head, 
Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power 
Rein'd up their steeds before the tower. 
" W^hence these pale looks, my son ? " h« 

said : 
"Where's Bertram?— Why that nakei 

blade .? " 
Wilfrid ambiguously replied, 
(For Mortham's charge his honor tied,) 
" Bertram is gone — the villain's word 
Avouch'd him murderer of his lord ! 
Even now we fought— but, when your tread 
Announced you nigh, the felon fled." 
In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear 
A guilty hope, a guilty fear ; 
On his pale brow'the dewdrop broke. 
And his lip quiver'd as he spoke : — 

XXIV. 

" A murderer !— Philip Mortham died 
Amid the kettle's wildest tide. 
Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you ! 
Yet, grant such strange confession true; 
Pursuit were vain— let him fly far — 
Justice must sleep in civil war." 
A gallant Youth rode near his side. 
Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried ; 
That morn, an embassy of weight 
He brought to Barnard's castle gate. 
And follow'd now in Wycliffe's train, 
An answer for his lord to gain. 
His steed, whose arch'd and sable neck 
An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck, 
Chafed not against the curb more high 
Than he at Oswald's cold reply ; 
He bit his lip, implored his saint, 
(His the old faith)— then burst restraint. 

XXV. 

" Yes ! I beheld his bloody fall 
By that base traitor's dastard ball. 
Just when I thought to measure sword, 
Presumptuous hope ! with Mortham's Xqk^ 
And shall the murderer 'scape, who slew 
His leader, generous, brave, and true ? 
Escape, while on the dew you trace 
The marks of his gigantic pace .? 
No ! ere the sun tiiat dew shall dry, 
False Risingham shall yield or die.— 
Ring out the castle 'larum bell ! 
Arouse the peasants with the knell ! 
Meantime disperse— ride, gallants, ride I 
Beset the wood on every side. 



194 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But if among you one tliere be, 
That lionors Mortham's memory, 
Let him clkmount and foilow me ! 
'Else on your crests sit feac^and shame, 
And foul suspicion dog your name 1 " 

XXVI. 

Instant to earth yoimg Redmond sprung ; 
Instant on earth the harness rung 
Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band, 
Who waited not their lord's command. 
Redmond his spurs from buskins drew, 
His mantle from his shoulders threw, 
His pistols in his belt he placed, 
The green-wood gain'd, the footsteps 

traced, 
Shouted like huntsman to his hounds, 
" To cover, hark ! " — and in he bounds. 
Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry 
*' Suspicion ! yes — pursue him, fiy — 
But venture not, in useless strife, 
On ruffian desperate of his life, 
Whoever finds him, shoot him dead I 
Five hundred nobles for his head ! " 

XXVII. 

The horsemen gallop'd, to make good 

Each path that issued from the wood. 

Loud from the thickets rung the shout 

Of Redmond and his eager rout I 

With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire. 

And envying Redmond's martial fire, 

And emulous of fame. — But where 

Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir ? 

He, bound by honor, law, and faith, 

Avenger of his kinsman's death ? — 

Leaning against the elmin tree, 

With drooping head and slacken'd knee, 

And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd hands, 

In agony of soul he stands ! 

His downcast eye on earth is bent, 

His soul to every sound is lent ; 

For in each shout that cleaves the air, 

May ring discovery and despair. 

XXVIII. 

What 'vail'd it him, that brightly play'd 
The morning sun on Mortham's glade? 
All seems in giddy round to ride, 
Like objects on a stormy tide, 
Seen eddying ly the moonlight dim, 
Imperfectly to sink and swim. 
What 'vail'd It, that the fair domain, 
Its battled mansion, hill, and plain, 
On which the sun so brightly shone. 
Envied so Icn^j, wis now his own ? 
The lowest dungccn, in that hour, 
Of Brackenbury's tisrad Iswer/'S 



Had been hii choice, could such a doom 
Have cpon'd M rtham's bloody tomb 1 
Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear 
To each surmis? of hope or fear, 
Murmur'd aniong the rustics round, 
Who gather' d at the 'larum sound ; 
He dared not turn his head away, 
E'en to look up to heaven to pray, 
Or call on hell in bitter mrod, 
For one sharp death-shct fi ucc. the w od ! 

XXIX, 

At length, o'erpast that dreadful space, 
Back straggling came the scattc. ':! chase: 
Jaded and weary, horse and man, 
Return'd the troopers one by one. 
Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say, 
All trace w'as lost of Bertram's way, 
Though Redmond still, up Brignal! >voO'i, 
The hopeless quest in vain pursuei. — 
O, fatal doom of human race ! 
What tyrant passions passions chase ! 
Remorse from Oswald's brow is g'^ne, 
Avarice and pride •esume their throne ; 
The pang of instant terror by. 
They dictate thus their slave's reply : — 

XXX. 

" Ay — let him range like hasty hcur.i! I 

And if the grim wolf's lair be fcnn:3, 

Small is my care how gees the gam ; 

With Redmond or with Risingham. — 

Nay, answer not, thou sv.T;ple b.y 1 

Thy fair Matilda, all so ccy 

To thee, is of another mocd 

To that bold youth cl Erin's blood 

Thy ditties will she freely praise, 

And pay thy pains with c:urtly phrase J 

In a rough path will eft command - 

Accept at least — thy friendly hand , 

His she avoids, or, urged and pray'd. 

Unwilling takes his prtffer'd aid. 

While conscious passu n plainly speak* 

In downcast look and blushing cheeks. 

Whene'er he sings, will she glide nigh, 

And all her soul is in her eye; 

Yet doubts she still to tender free 

The wonted words of courtesy. 

These are strong signs ! — yet whefttfor; 

sigh, 
And wipe, effeminate, thine eye? 
Thine sh?ll she be, if thou attend 
The counsels of thy sire and friend, 

XXXI. 

" Scarce wert thou gone, when peep <A 

light 
, Brought genuine news of Mirs'.on's f.^ht. 



ROKEBY. 



195 



Brave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful tide, 

And conquest bless'd the rightful side ; 

Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, 

Rupert and that bold Marquis fled ; 

Nobles and knights, so proud of late, 

Must fine for freedom and estate. _ 

Of these, committed to my charge, 

Is Rokeby, prisoner at large ; 

Redmond, his page, arrived to say 

He reaches Barn:;rd's towers to-day. 

Right heavy shall his ransom be. 

Unless that maid compound with thee !-* 

Go to her now — b2 bold of cheer. 

While her soul floats 'twixt hope and fea*' .; 

It is the very change of t'.de, 

"\V!ien best the female heart is tried — 

Pride, prejudice, and modesty, 

Are in the current swept to sea ; 

And the bold swain, who plies liis oar, 

May lightly row his bark to shore." 



CANTO THIRD. 



The hunting tribes of air and earth 
Kespect ths brethren of their birth ; 
Nature, who loves the claim of kind, 
Less cruel chase to each assign'd. 
Tha falcon, poised on soaring wing. 
Watches the wild-duck by the spring ; 
The si jw-hound wakes the fox's lair ; 
The grayliound presses on the hare ; 
The eagle pounces on the lamb ; 
Tiie wolf devours the fleecy dam : 
Even tiger fell, and sullen bear, 
Their likeness and their lineage spare ; 
Man, only, mars kind Nature^s plan. 
And turns the fierce pursuit on man : 
Plying war's desultory trade. 
Incursion, flight, and ambuscade, 
Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son, 
At first the bloody game begun. 

II. 
jThe Indian, prowling for his prey, 
Who h;ars the settlers track his way ,2s 
And knows in distant forest far 
Camp his red brethren of the war ; 
He, when each double and disguise 
To baffle the pursuit he tries. 
Low crouching now his head to hide, 
Where swampy streams through rushes 

glide. 
Now covering with the wither'd leaves 
The foot-prints that the dew receives : 



He, skilj'd in every sylvan guile, 
Knows not, nor tries, such various wile, 
As Risingham, when on the wind 
Arose tlie loud pursuit behind. 
In Redesdale his youtli had heard 
Each art her wily dalesmen dared, 
When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high, 
To bugle rung and blood-hound's cry,^^ 
Announcing Jedvvood-axe and spear, 
And Lid'sdale riders in the rear ; 
And well his venturous life had proved 
The lessons that his childhood loved. 

III. 

Oft had he sViown in climes afar, 
Each attribute of roving v/ar ; 
The sharpen'd ear, the piercing eye, 
The quick resolve in danger nigh ; 
The speed, that in the flight or chase, 
Outstripp'd the Charib's rapid race; 
The steady brain, the sinewy limb, 
To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim ; 
The iron frame, inured to bear 
Each dire inclemency of air. 
Nor less confirm'd to undergo 
Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's throe. 
These arts he proved, his live to save, 
In peril oft by Isnd and wave, 
On Arawaca's desert shore. 
Or where La Plata's billows roar, 
When oft the sons of vengeful Spain 
Track'd the mani.uder's steps in vain. 
These arts, in In iian warfare tried, 
Must save him n )w by Greta's side. 



'Twas then, in hour of utmost need. 

He proved his courage, art, and speed. 

Now slow he PtaHid with stealthy pace, 

Now started forth in rapid race. 

Oft doubling back m mazy train. 

To blind the trace the dews retain ; 

Now clomb the rcck:> projecting high. 

To bafifie the pursuer's eye ; 

Now sought the stream, whose brawling 

sound 
The echo of his footstep? drown'd. 
But if the forest verge he nears, 
There trample steeds, and glimmer sp^rs ; 
If deeper down the copse he drew, 
He b.eard the rangers' loud halloo, 
Beating each cover while they came. 
As if to start the sylvan game. 
'Twas then — like tiger close beset 
At every pass with toil and net, 
'Counter'd, where'er he turns his glare, 
By clashing arms and torches' fiare, 



196 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Who meditates, with furious bound, 
To burst on hunter, horse, and hoard, — 
'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose, 
Prompting to rush upon his foes : 
But as that crouching tiger, cow'd 
By brandish' d steel and shouting crowd, 
Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud, 
Bertram suspends his purpose stern, 
And couches in the brake and fern, 
Hiding his face, lest foemen spy, 
The sparkle of his swarthy eye.^^ 

V. 
Then Bertram might the bearing trace 
Of the bold youth who led the chase ; 
Who paused to list for every sound, 
Climb every height to look around, 
Then rushing on with naked sword, 
Each dingle's bosky depths explored. 
'Twas Redmond — by the azure eye; 
'Twas Redmond— by the locks that fly 
Disorder'd from his glowing cheek ; 
Mien, face, and form, young Redmond 

speak. 
A form more active, light, and strong, 
Ne'er shot the ranks of war along ; 
The modest, yet the manly mien, 
Might grace the court of maiden queen . 
A face more fair you well might find. 
For Redmond's knew the sun and wind, 
Nor boasted, from their tinge when free, 
The charm of regularity ; 
But every feature had the power 
To aid the expression of the hour : 
Whether gay wit, and humor sly. 
Danced laughing in his light-blue eye; 
Or bended brow, and glance of fire. 
And kindling cheek, spoke Erin's ire ; 
Or soft and sadden'd glances show 
Her ready sympathy with woe ; 
Or in that wayward mood of mind, 
When various feelings are combined, 
When joy and sorrow mingle near. 
And hope's bright wings are check'd by 

fear. 
And rising doubts keep transport down, 
And anger lends a short-lived frown ; 
In that strange mood which maids approve 
Even when they dare not call it love ; 
Witli every change his features play'd 
As aspens show the light and shade. 

VI. 

Well Risingham young Redmond knew : 
And much lie niarvell'd that tlie crew, 
Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead, 
Were by that Mortham's foeman led ; 



For never felt his soul the woe, 
That wails a generous foeman low. 
Far less that sense of justice strong. 
That wreaks a generous foeman's wrong. 
But small his leisure now to pause ; 
Redmond is first, whate'er the cause : 
And twfce that Redmond came so near 
Where Bertram couch'd like hunted deer 
The very boughs his steps displace, 
Rustled against the ruffian's face. 
Who, desperate, twice prepared to start. 
And plunge his dagger in his heart I 
But Redmond turn'd a different way. 
And the bent boughs resumed their sway, 
And Bertram held it wise, unseen, 
Deeper to plunge in coppice green. - 
Thus, circled in his coil, the snake, 
When roving hunters beat the brake, 
Watches with red and glistening eye, 
Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh. 
With forked tongue and venom'd fang 
Instant to dart the deadly pang; 
But if the intruders turn aside, 
Away his coils unfolded glide. 
And through the deep savannah wind, 
Some undisturb'd retreat to find. 

VII. 

But Bertram, as he backvvard drew, 
And heard the loud pursuit renew, 
And Redmond's hollo on the wind. 
Oft mutter'd in his savage mind — 
" Redmond O'Neale ! were thou and I 
Alone this day's event to try, 
With not a second here to see. 
But the gray cliff and oaken tree, — 
That voice of thine, that shouts so loud. 
Should ne'er repeat its summons proud! 
No ! nor e'er try its melting power 
Again in maiden's summer bower." 
Eluded, now behind him die. 
Faint and more faint, each hostile cry ; 
He stands in Scargill wood alone, 
Nor hears he now a harsher tone 
Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive cry. 
Or Greta's sound that murmurs by ; 
And on the dais, so lone and wild, 
The summer sun in quiet smiled. 

VIII. 

He listen'd long with anxious heart. 
Ear bent to hear, and foot to start. 
And, while his stretch'd attention glows, 
Refused his weary frame repose. 
'Twas silence all — he laid him down, 
Where purple heath profusely strown, 
And throatwort, with its azure bell, 
And moss and thyme his cushion s\t^1. 



if 



ROKEB y. 



97 



There, spent with toil, he listless eyed 

The course of Greta's playful tide ; 

Beneath, her banks now eddying dun, 

Now brightly gleaming to the sun, 

As, dancing over rock and stone, 

In yellow light her currents shone. 

Matching in hue the favorite gem 

Of Albin's mountain-diadem. 

Then, tired to watch the current's play, 

He turn'd his weary eyes away, 

To where the bank opposing show'd 

Its huge, square cliffs through shaggy wood. 

One, prominent above the rest, 

Reared to the sun his pale gray breast ; 

Around its broken summit grew 

The hazel rude and sable yew ; 

A thousand varied lichens dyed 

Its waste and weather-beaten side, 

And round its rugged basis lay, . 

By time or thunder rent away. 

Fragments, that, from its frontlet torn, 

"Were mantled now by verdant thorn. 

Such was the scene's wild majesty, 

Tliat fill'd stern Bertram's gazing eye. 

IX. 

In sullen mood he lay reclined. 
Revolving, in his stormy mind, 
The felon deed, the fruitless guilt. 
His patron's* blood by treason spilt ; 
A crime, it.seem'd, so dire and dread. 
That it had power to wake the dead. 
Then, pondering on his life betray'd 
By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade, 
[n treacherous purpose to withhold, 
60 seem'd it, Mortham's promised gold, 
A deep and full revenge he vow'd 
On Redmoiid. forward, fierce, and proud ; 
Revenge on Wilfrid— on his sire 
Redoubled vengeance, swift and dire ! — 
If, in such mood (as legends say. 
And well believed that^ simple day), 
The Enemy of man has power 
To profit by the evil hour. 
Here stood a wretch, prepared to change 
His soul's redemption for revenge ! ^° 
But though his vows, with such a fire 
Of earnest and intense desire 
For vengeance dark and fell, were made, 
As well might reach hell's lowest shade, 
No deeper clouds the grove embrown'd, 
No nether thunders shook the ground ;— 
The demon knew his vassal's heart. 
And spared temptation's needless art. 

X. 

Oft, minglt-d with the direful theme, 
Ciine Mortham's. form— Was it a dream ? 



Or had he seen, in vision true. 

That very Mortham whom he slew ? 

O'- had in living flesh appcar'd 

The only mar. on earth lie fear'd ?— 

To try the mystic cause intent, 

His eyes, that on the cliff were bent, 

'Counter'd at once a dazzling glance. 

Like sunbeam flash'd from sword or lance. 

At once he started as for fight. 

But not a foeman was in siglit ; 

He heard the cushat's murmur h.oarse, 

He heard the river's sounding course ; 

The solitary woodlands lay. 

As slumbering in the summer ray. 

He gazed, like lion roused, around, 

Then sunk again upon the ground. 

'Twas but, he thought, some fitful beam. 

Glanced sudden from the sparkling 

stream ; 
Then plunged him from his gloomy train 
Of ill-connected thoughts again. 
Until a voice behind him cried, 
" Bertram I well met on Greta side." 

XI. 

Instant his sword was in his hand, 
As instant sunk the ready brand ; 
Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood 
To him that issued from the wood : 
" Guy Denzil ! — is it thou ? " he said ; 
" Do we two meet in Scargill shade ? — 
Stand back a space ! — thy purpose show, 
Whether thou com'st as friend or foe. 
Report hath said, that Denzil's name 
From Rokeby's band was razed with 

shame." — 
" A shame I owe that hot O'Neale, 
Who told his knight, in peevish zeal, 
Of my marauding on the clowns 
Of Calverley and Bradford downs. =9 
I reck not. In a war to strive. 
Where, sav{- the leaders, none can thrive, 
Suits ill my r"cod ; and better game 
Awaits us both, if thou'rt the same 
Unscrupulous, bold Risingham, 
Who watch'd with me in midnight davk 
To Tinatch a deer from Rokeby-park. 
How think'st thou .'' " — " Speak thy purv-'. 

pose out ; 
I love not mystery or doubt."— 

XII.. 

" Then, list. — Not far there lurk a crew 
Of trusty comrades, stanch and true, 
Glean'd from both factions — Roundhdads, 

freed 
From cant of sermon and of creed ; 



ig$ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And CaTaliers, whose souls, like mine, 

'Jpurn at the bonds of discipline. ■ 

Wiser, we judge, by dale and wold, 

A warfare of our own to hold, 

Than breathe our last on battle-down. 

For cloak or surplice, mace or crown. 

Our schemes are laid, our purpose set, 

A chief and leader lack wc yet. — 

Thou art a wanderer, it is said ; 

For Mortham's death, thy steps way-laid, 

Thy head at price— so say our spies, 

Who range the valley in disguise. 

Join then with us : — though wild debate 

And wrangling rend our infant state, 

Each to an equal loth to bow, 

Will yield to chief renown'd as thou."— 



" Even now," thought Bertram, passion- 

stirr'd, 
" I call'd on hell, and hell has heard ! 
What lack I, vengeance to command. 
But of stanch comrades such a bandf 
This Denzii, vow'd to every evil, 
Might read a lesson to the devil. 
Well, be it so ! each knave and fool 
Shall serve as my revenge's tool." — 
Aloud, '• I take thy proffer, Guy, 
But tell me where thy comrades lie ? " 
" Not far from hence," Guy Denzii said ; 
" Descend, and cross the river's bed, 
Where rises yonder cliff so gray." 
" Do thou." said Bertram, "lead the way." 
Then mutter'd, " It is best make sure ; 
Guy Denzil's faith was never pure." 
He follow'd down tlie steep descent, 
Then through the Greta's streams they 

went ; 
And, when they reach'd the farther siiore, 
They stood the lonely cliff before. 



With wonder Bertram heard within 
The flinty rock a murmur'd din ; 
But when Guy pull'd the wilding spray, 
And brambles, from its base away, 
He saw, appearing to the air, 
A little entrance, low and square, 
Like opening cell of hermit lone, 
Dark, winding through the living stone. 
Here enter'd Denzii, Bertram here ; 
And loud and louder on their ear, 
As from the bowels of the earth, 
Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth. 
Of old, the cavern strait and rude. 
In slaty rock ;he peasant hew'd; 



And Brignall's woods, and Scargill's 

wave. 
E'en .now, o'er many a sister cave,^° 
Where, far witliin the darksome rift, 
The v/edge and lever ply their thrift. 
But war had silenced rural trade, 
And the deserted mine was made 
The banquet-hall and fortress too, 
Of Denzii and his desperate crew. — 
There Guilt his anxious reve. kept; 
There, on his sordid pallet, slept 
Guilt-horn Excess, the goblet drain'd 
Still in his slumbering grasp retain'd ; 
Regret was there, his eye still cast 
With vain repining on the past ; 
Among the feasters waited .lear 
Sorrow, and unrepentant Fear, 
And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven, 
With his own crimes reproaching heaven} 
While Bertram show'd, amid the crew, 
The Master-Fiend that Milton drew. 

XV. 

Hark ! the loud revel wakes again. 

To greet the leader of the train. 

Behold the group by the pale lamp, 

That struggles with the earthy damp. 

By what strange features Vice hath known, 

To single out and mark her own ! 

Yet some there are, whose brows retain 

Less deeply stamp'd her brand and stain. 

See yon pale stripling ! when a boy, 

A mothers pride, a father's joy ! 

Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls recline(^ 

An early image fills his mind : 

The cottage, once his sire's, he sees, • 

Embower'd upon the banks of Tees ; 

He views sweet Winston's woodlant 

scene, 
And shares the dance on Gainford-green. 
A tear is springing — but the zest 
Of some wild tale or brutal jest, 
Hath to loud laughter stirr'd the rest. 
On him they call, the aptest mate 
For jovial song and merry feat : 
Fast flies his dream — with dauntless air^ 
As one victorious o'er Despair, 
He bids the ruby cup go round. 
Till sense and sorrow both are drown'd', 
And soon, in merry wassail, he. 
The life of all their revelry. 
Peals his loud song ! — The muse has found 
Her blossoms on the wildest ground, 
'Mid noxious weeds at random strew'd, 
Themselves all profitless and rude. — 
With desperate merriment he sung, 
The cavern to the chorus ru3ig ; 



ROKEBY. 



t99 



Yet mingled with his reckless glee 
Remorse's bitter agony. 



SONG. 

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton-hallj 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily, — 

CHORUS, 

" O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove witli Edmund there, 

Than reign our English queen." — 

'' If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we, 

That dwell by dale and down ? 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may. 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, 

As blithe as Oueen of May." — 

CHORUS. 

Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 

Than reign our English queen. 
XVII. 
'■' I read you, by your bugle-horn, 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn, 

To keep the king's greenwood."— 
"A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And 'tis at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry morn, 

And mine at dead of night." — 

CHORUS. 

Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay ; 
1 would I were with Edmund there, 

To reign his Queen of May ! 

"With burnish'd brand and musketoon, 

So gallantly you come, 
1 read you for a bold Dragoon, 

That lists the tuck of drum." — 
" I hst no more the tuck of drum. 

No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum, 

My comrades take the spear. 



CHORUS. 

" And, O ! though Brignall banks be fair, 

And Greta woods be gay. 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare. 

Would reign my Queen of May ! 

XVIII. 

" Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die ! 
The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, 

Were better mate than I ! 
And when Tm with my comrades met, 

Beneath the greenwood bough, 
What once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now. 

CHORUS. 

" Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 
• Would grace a summer queen." 
When Edmund ceased his simple song, 
Was silence on the sullen throng, 
Till waked some ruder mate their glee 
With note of coarser minstrelsy. 
But, far apart, in dark divan, 
Denzil and Bertram many a plan, 
Of import foul and fierce, design'd, 
While still on Bertram's grasping mind 
The wealth of murder'd Mortham hung ; 
Though half he fear'd his daring tongue, 
When it should give his wishes birth, 
Might raise a spectre from the earth ! 

XIX. 

At length his wondrous tale hb told : 

When, scornful, smiled his comrade bold ; 

For, train'd in license of a court, 

Religion's self was Denzil's sport ; 

Then judge in what contempt he held 

The visionary tales of eld ! 

His awe for Bertram scarce repress'd 

The unbeliever's sneering jest. 

" 'Twere hard," he said, " for sage or scor, 

To spell the subject of your fear ; 

Nor do I boast the art renovvn'd, 

Vision and omen to expound. 

Yet, faith, if I must needs afford 

To spectre watching treasured hoard, 

As bandog keeps his master's roof, 

Bidding the plunderer stand aloof. 

This doubt remains — thy goblin gaunt 

Hath. chosen ill his ghostly haunt ; 

For why his guard on Mortham hold, 

When Rokeby castle hath the gold . 

Thy patron won on Indian soil. 

By stealth, by piracy, and spoil ? " 



zoo 



SCOTT'S FOE TICAL WORKS. 



XX. 

At this he paused — for angry shame 

Lower'd on the brow of Risingham. 

He blush'd to think, that he should seem 

Assertor of an airy dream, 

And gave his wrath another theme. 

" Denzil," he says, " though lovv'ly laid, 

Wrong not the memory of tlie dead ; 

For, while he lived, at Mortham's look 

Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook ! 

And v/hen he tax'd thy breach of word 

To yon fair Rose of AUenford, 

I saw thee crouch like chasten'd hound, 

Whose back the huntsman's lash hath 

found. 
Nor dare to call his foreign wealth 
The spoil of piracy or stealth ; 
He won it bravely with his brand, 
When Spain waged warfare with our land.^^ 
Mark, too — I brook no idle jeer, 
Nor couple Bertram's name with fear; 
Mine is but half the demon's lot, 
For I believe, but tremble not. — 
Enough of this. — Say, why this hoard 
Thou deem'st at Rokeby castle stored ; 
Or think'st that Mortham would bestow 
His treasure with his faction's foe ? " 

XXI. 

Soon quench'd was Denzil's ill-timed 

mirth ; 
Rather he would have seen the earth 
Give to ten thousand spectres birth, 
Than venture to awake to flame 
The deadly wrath of Risingham. 
Submiss he answer'd, — " Mortham's mind, 
Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined. 
In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free, 
A lusty reveller was he ; 
But since return' d from over sea, 
A sullen and a silent mood 
Hath numb'd the current of his blood. 
Hence he refused each kindly call 
To Rokeby's hospitable hall, 
And our stout knight, at dawn of morn 
Who loved to hear the bugle horn. 
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrown'd, 
To see the ruddy cup go round, 
Took umbrage that a friend so near 
Refused to share his chase and cheer ; 
Thus did the kindred barons jar, 
Ere they divided in the war. 
Yet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair 
Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir."— 

XXII. 

" Destined to her I to yon slight maid ! 
The prize my life had vvellnigh paid, 



When 'gainst Larochc, by Cayo's \^-ave, 
1 fought, my patron's wealth to save !•— 
Denzil, 1 knew him long, yet ne'er 
Knew him tiiat joyous cavalier. 
Whom youthful friends and early fame 
Call'd soul of gallantry and game. 
A moody man, he sought our crew, 
Desperate and dark, whom no one knew ; 
And rose, as men with us must rise, 
By scorning life and all its ties. 
On each adventure rash he roved. 
As danger for itself he loved ; 
On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine 
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine ; 
111 was the omen if he smiled. 
For 'twas in peril stern and wild ; 
But when he laugh'd, each luckless mate 
Might hold our fortune desperate. 
Foremost he fought in every broil, 
Then scornful turn'd him from the spoil ; 
Nay, often strove to bar the way 
Between his comrades and their prey ; 
Preaching, even then, to such as we, 
Hot with our dear-bought victory, 
Of mercy and humanity. 



" I loved him well — His fearless part 
His gallant leading, won my heart. 
And after each victorious fight, 
'Twas I that wrangled for his right, 
Redeem" d his portion of the prey 
That greedier mates had torn away : 
In field and storm thrice saved his life, 
And once amid our comrades' strife. — ^ 
Yes, 1 have loved thee ! Well hath proved 
My toil, my danger, how I loved ! 
Yet will I mourn no more thy fate, 
Ingrate in life, in death ingrate. 
Rise if thou canst ! " he look'd around. 
And sternly stamp'd upon the ground — 
" Rise, with thy bearing proud and high, 
Even as this morn it met mine eye. 
And give me, if thou darest, the lie ! " 
He paused — then, calm and passion-freed; 
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed. 

XXIV. 

" Bertram, to thee I need not tell, ' 
What thou hast cause to wot so well, 
How Superstition's nets were twined 
Around the Lord of Mortham's mind I 
But since he drove thee from his tower, 
A maid he found in Greta's bower, 
Whose speech, like David's harp, had 

sway, 
To charm his evil fiend away. 



ROKEBY. 



20) 



I know not if her features moved 
Remembrance of the wife h^' loved ; 
But he would gaze upon her eye, 
Till his mood soften'd to a sigh. 
He, whom nu living mortal sought 
To question of his secret thought, 
Now every thought and care confess'd 
To his fair niece's faithful breast ; 
Nor was there aught of rich and rare, 
In earth, in ocean, or in air. 
But it must deck Matilda's hair. 
Her love still bound him unto life ; 
But then awoke the civil strife, 
And menials bore, by his commands, 
Tliree coffers, with their iron bands, 
From Mortham's vault, at midnight deep. 
To her lone bower in Rokeby-Keep, 
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride, 
His gift, if he in battle died.'' — 



" Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train, 
These iron-banded chests to gain ; 
Else, wherefore should lie hover here, 
Wlicre many a peril waits him near, 
For all his feats of war and peace. 
For phinder'd boors, and harts of greese? 
Since through the hamlets as he fared, 
What hearth has Guy's marauding spared. 
Or where the chase that hath not rung 
"With Denzil's bow, at midnight strung? "— 
'•I hold my wont — my rangers go, 
Even now to track a milk-white doe. 
By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair, 
In Greta wood she harbors fair. 
And when my huntsman marks her way, 
What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey ? 
Were Rokeby's daughter in our power. 
We rate her ransom at her dower." 



** 'Tis well ! — there's vengeance in the 

thought, 
Matilda is by Wilfrid sought ; 
And hot-brain'd Redmond, too, 'tis said, 
(Pays lover's homage to the maid. 
Bertram she S(rorn'd — If met by chance, 
She turn'd from me her shuddering^glance. 
Like a nice dame, tliat will not brook 
On what she hates and loathes to look ; 
Slie told to Mortham she could ne'er 
Behold me without secret fear. 
Foreboding evil ; — She may rue 
To find her prophecy fall true ! — 
The- war has weeded Rokeby's train, 
Few followers in his halls remain ; 



If thy scheme miss, then, brief and bold, 
We are enow to storm the hold ; 
Bear off the plunder, and the dame, 
And leave the castle all in flame." — 



" Still art thou Valor's venturous son ! 

Yet ponder first the risk to run : 

The menials of the castle, true. 

And stubborn to their charge, though few ; 

The wall to scale — the moat to cross — 

Tiie wicket-gate — the inner fosse." — 

— " Fool ! if we blench for toys like these, 

On what fair guerdon can we seize ? 

Our hardiest venture, to explore 

Some wretched peasant's fenceless door. 

And the best prize we bear awaj'. 

The earnings of his sordid day."— - 

" A while thy hasty taunt forbear: 

In sight of road more sure and fair, 

Thou wouldst not choose, in blindfold 

wrath, 
Or wantonness, a desperate path ? 
List, then ; — for vantage or assault, 
From gilded vane to dungeon-vault, 
Each pass of Rokeby-house I know : 
There is one postern, dark and low, 
That issues at a secret spot, 
By most neglected or forgot. 
Now, could a spial of our train 
On fair pretext admittance gain. 
That sally-port might be unbarr'd : 
Then, vain were battlement and ward! '' — 

XXVIII. 

" Now speak'st thou well : — to me the 

same, 
If force or art shall urge the game ; 
Indifferent, if like fox I wind. 
Or spring like tiger on the hind. — 
But, hark ! our merry nien so gay 
Troll forth another roundelay." — • 

SONG. 

" A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine ! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 

No more of me you knew, 

My love I 
No more of me you knew, 

" This morn is merry June, I trow, 
The rose is budding fain ; 



202 



SCO TT 'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 



But she shall bloom in winter snow, 

Ere we two meet again." 
He turn'd his charger as he spake, 

Upon the river shore, 
He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 

Said, " Adieu for evermore, 

My love ! 
And adieu for evermore." — ^^ 

XXIX. 

*■ Vv'hat youth is this, your band among, 
The best for minstrelsy and song ? 
In his wild notes seem aptly met 
A strain of pleasure and regret." — 
" Edmund of Winston is his name ; 
The hamlet sounded with the fame 
Of early hopes his childhood gave, — 
Now centr'd all in Brignall cave ! 
1 watch him well — his wayward course 
Shows oft a tincture of remorse. 
Some early love-shaft grazed his heart. 
And oft the scar will ache and smart. 
Yet is he useful ; — of the rest. 
By fits, the darling and the jest, 
His harp, his story, and his lay, 
Oft aid the idle hours away. 
When unemploy'd, each fiery mate 
Is ripe for mutinous debate. 
He tuned his strings e'en now — again 
He wakes them, with a blither strain." 

XXX. 

SONG. 

Alle7i-a-Dale: 
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
Allen-a-.Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the win- 
ning. 
Come, read me my riddle I come, hearken 

my tale ! 
And tell'me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 
The Baron of Ravensworth * prances in 

pride, * 
And he views his domains upon Arkindale 

side. 
The mer» for his net, and the land for his 

game. 
The chase for the wild, and the park for the 
tame, 

* The ruins of Ravensworth Castle stand in 
tlie North Riding of Yorkshire, about three 
miles from the town of Richmond, and adjoin- 
ing to the waste called the Forest of Arkin- 
garth. It belonged orizinally to the powerful 
family of Fitz-Hugh, from whom it passed to 
the Lords Dacre of the South. 



Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the 

vale, 
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Alleiia- 

DaleJ 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade 

be as bright ; 
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his 

word ; 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will 

vail, 
Wh.o at Rere-cross ^^ on Stanmore meets 

Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 

The mother, she ask'd of his household and 
home : 

" Though the castle of Richmond stand fair 
on the hill. 

My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gal- 
♦ lanter still; 

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its cres- 
cent so pale, 

And with all its bright spangles I " said 
Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was 
stone; 

They lifted the latch, and they bade him be 
gone; 

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and 
their cry : 

He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny 
black eye. 

And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
tale. 

And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- 
Dale I 

XXXI. 

" Thou see'st th.at, whether sad or gay, 
Love mingles ever in his lay. 
But when his boyish wayward fit 
Is o'er, he hath address and wit; 

I 'tis a brain of fire, can ape 
Each dialect, each various shape." 

" Nay, then, to aid thy project, Guy — 
Soft ! who comes here? " — ''' My trusty spy, 
Speak, Hamlin ! hast thou lodged cur 

deer.?"— 's 
'' I have — but two fair stags are near.' 

1 watch'd her, as she slowly stray'd 
From Egliston up Thorsgill glade; 
But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side, 
And then young Redmond, in his pride, 
Shot down to meet them on their way: 
Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to saj: 



ROKEB Y. 



203 



/here's time to pitch both toil and net, 
Before their path be homeward set." 
A hurried and a whisper'4 sj^eech 
Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach ; 
Who, turnmg to the robber band, 
Bade four, the bravest, talie the brand. 



CANTO FOURTH. 



When Denmark's raven soar'd on high, 
Triumphant through Nortlunnbrian sky. 
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak 
Bade Reged's Brilons dread the yoke,^^ 
And the broad shadow of her wing 
Blacken'd each cataract and spring. 
Where Tees in tumult leaves his source. 
Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force 
Beneath the shade the Northmen came, 
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name,^'' 
Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone. 
And gave their Gods the land they won. 
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine. 
And one sweet brooklet's silver line. 
And Woden's Croft did title gain 
From the stern Father of the Slain ; 
But to the Monarch of the JMace, 
That held in fight the foremost place, 
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse. 
Near Stratforth high they paid tlieir vows, 
Remember'd Thor's victorious fame. 
And gave the dell the Thunderer's name. 

11. 
Yet Scald or Kemper err'd, I ween. 
Who gave that soft and quiet scene, 
With all its varied light and shade, 
And every little sunny glade, 
5Vnd the blithe brook that strolls along 
Its pebbled bed with summer song, 
To the grim God of blood and scar. 
The grisly King of Northern War. 
O, better were its banks assign'd s 
To spirits of a gentler kind ! 
For where the thicket groups recede, 
Aad tfee rath primrose decks the mead. 
The velvet grass seems carpet meet 
For the light fairies' lively feet. 
Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strown. 
Might make proud Oberon a throne, 
While, hidden in the thicket nigh, 
Puck-should brood o'er liis frolic sly ; 
And where profuse the wood-vetch clings 
Round ash and elm, in verdant rings, 
Its pale and uz-ure-pencill'd flower ^ 
Should canopy Titania's bower. 



in. 
Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade; 

But, skirting every sunny glade. 
In fair variety of green 
The woodland lends its sylvan screen. 
Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak. 
Its boughs by weight of ages broke ; 
And towers erect, in sable spire. 
The pine-tree scathed by lightning fire ; 
The drooping ash and birch, between, 
Hang their fail' tresses o'er the green, 
And all beneath, at random grow 
Each coppice dwarf of varied sliow, 
Or, round the stems profusely twined, 
Fling summer odors en the wind. 
Such varied group Urbino's hand 
Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd. 
What time he bade proud Athens own 
On Mars's Mount the God unknown! 
Then giay Philosophy stood nigh. 
Though bent by age, in spirit high : 
Then rose the scar-seam'd veteran's spear, 
There Grecian Beauty bent to hear. 
While Childhood at her foot was placed, 
Or clung delighted to her waist, 

IV. 

" And rest we here," Matilda said, 
And sat her in the varying shade. 
" Chance-met, we well may steal an hoar, 
To friendship due, from fortune's power. 
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend 
Thy counsel to thy sister-frirnd ; 
And, Redmond, thou, at my behest, 
No farther u.rge thy desperate quest. 
For to my care a charge is left, 
Dangerous to one of aid bereft ; 
Wsllnigh an orphan, and alone,- 
Captive her sire, her house o'erthrown." 
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced, 
Beside lier on the tuif she placed ; 
Then paused, with dov/ncast look and eye, 
Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh. 
Her conscious diffidence he saw, 
Drew backward, as in modest awe, 
And rat a little space removed, 
Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved. 

V. 

Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hah 
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, 
Half hid and half reveal'd to view 
Her full dark eye of hazel hue. 
The rose, with faint and feeble streak, 
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek, 
That you had said her hue was pale ; 
But if she faced the summer gale, 



S04 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORJirS. 



Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, 

Or lieard the praise of those she loved. 

Or when of interest was express' d 

Aught that waked feehng in her breast, 

The manthng blood in ready play 

Rivall'd the blush of rising day. 

There was a soft and pensive grace, 

A cast of thought upon her face, 

That suited well the forehead high, 

The eyelash dark, and downcast eye ; 

The mild expression "spoke a mind 

In duty firm, composed, resign'd; 

'Tis that which Roman art has given 

To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven. 

In hours of sport, that mood gave way 

To fancy's light and frolic play ; 

And when the dance, or tale, or song. 

In harmless mirth sped time along. 

Fall oft her doating sire v/oulJ call 

His Maud the merriest of them all. 

But days of war and civil crime, 

Aliow'd but ill such festal time. 

And her soft pensiveness of brow 

Had deepen'd into sadness now. 

In Marston field her father ta'en, 

Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham slain, 

Winle every ill her soul foretold, 

From Oswald's thirst of power and gold. 

And boding thoughts that she must part 

With a soft vision of her heart, — 

All lower'd around the lovely maid, 

To darken her defection's shade. 



VI. 



Who has not heard — while Erin yet 
Strove 'gainst the Saxon's iron bit — 
Who has not heard how brave O'Neale 
In English blood imbrued his steel, '^ 
Against St. George's cross blazed high 
The banners of his Tanistry, 
To fiery Essex gave the foil. 
And reign'd a prince on Ulster's soil .'' 
But chief arose his victor pride, 
When that brave Marshal fought and died,39 
And Avon-Duff to ocean bore 
His billows red wi^h Saxoii gore. 
'Twas first in tliat disastrous fight, 
Rokeby and Mortham proved their might. 
There had they fallen 'mongst the rest. 
But pity touch'd a ch'.eftain's breast ; 
The Tanist he to great O'Neale"; -1° 
He check'd iiis followers' bloody zeal, 
To quarter took the kinsmen bold, 
And bore them to his mountain-hold, 
Gave them each sylvan joy to know. 



Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods t .<i4 

show. 
Shared with them Erin's festal cheer, 
Show'd them th(*chase of wolf and dee*, 
And, when a fitting time was come, 
Safe and unransom'd sent them home, 
Loaded with many a gift, to prove 
A generous foe's respect and love, 

VII. 

Years speed away. On Rokeby's head 
Some touch of early snow was shed ; 
Calm he enjoy'd, by Greta's wave. 
The peace which James the Peaceful gave, 
While Mortham, far beyond the main, 
Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain.- 
It chanced upon a wintry night, 
That whiten'd Stanmore's stormy height, 
The chase was o'er, the stag was kill'd, 
In Rokeby hall the cups were fiU'd, 
And by the huge stone chimney sate 
The Knight in hospitable state. 
Moonless the sky. the hour was late, 
When a loud summons shook the gate 
And sore for entrance and for aid 
A voice of foreign accent pray'd. 
The porter answer'd to the call, 
And instant rush'd into the hall 
A Man, whose aspect and attire 
Startled the circle by the fire. 



His plaited hair in elf-locks spread 

Around his bare and matted head ; 

On leg and thigh, close stretch'd and trim, 

His vesture show'd. the sinewy limb ; 

In saffron dyed, a linen vest 

Was frequent folded round his breast ; 

A mantle long and" loose he wore, » 

Shaggy with ice, and stain'd with gore. 

He clasp'd a burden to his heart, 

And, resting on a knotted dart. 

The snow from hair and beard he shook, 

And round him gazed with wilder'd loolc. 

Then up the hall with staggering pace, 

He hasten'd 'oy the blaze to place, 

Half lifeless from the bitter air. 

His load, a Boy of beauty rare. 

To Rokeby, next, he louted low. 

Then stood erect his tale to show. 

With wild majestic port and tone, 

Like envoy of some barbarous throne,** 

" Sir Richard, Lord of Rokeby, hear ! 

Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear ; 

He graces thee, and to tliy care 

Young Redmond g:ves, his grandson f2i» 



ROKEB Y. 



205 



He bids thee breed him as thy son, 
For Turlough's days of joy are done ; 
And other lords have seized his land, 
And faint and feeWe is his hand ; 
And all tht glory of Tyrone 
Is like a morning vapor fiown. 
To bind th: duty on thy soul. 
He bids thee think on Erin's bowl ! 
Jf any wrong the young O'Neale, 
He bids thee think of Erin's steel. 
To Mortham first this ch?.rge v>-as due, 
But, in his absence, hor.ors you. — 
JS^ow IS my master's message by, 
And Ferraught will contented die 



His look grew fix'd, his cheek grew pale. 
He sunk when he had told his tale ; 
For, hid beneath his m^ntl? wide, 
A mortal wound was in his side. 
Vain was ail aid— in terror wild, 
And sorrow, scream'd the orphan Child, 
Poor Ferraurht raised his wistful eyes, 
And faintly strove to soothe his cries ; 
All reckless of hi';; dying pain, 
He blest and blest hi;n o'er again ! 
And kiss'd the little hands outspread, 
And kiss'd and cross'd the infant head. 
And, in his native tongue and phrase, 
Pray'd to each Saint to watch his days ; 
Then all his strength together drew. 
The charge to Rokeby to renew. 
When half was falter'd from his breast. 
And half by dying signs express'd, 
^ Bless the ONeale ! " he faintly said, 
And thus the faithful spirit fied. 



'Twas long ere soothing might prevail 
Upon the Child to end the tale ; 
And then he said, that from his home 
His grandsire had been forced to roam. 
Which had not been if Redmond's hand 
Had but had strength to draw the brand, 
The brand of Lenaugh More the Rfed, 
That hung beside the gray wolf's head. — ■ 
'Twas from his broken phrase descried. 
His fester-father was his guide, '♦^ 
Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore 
Letters and gifts a goodly store : 
But ruffians met them in the wood, 
Ferraught in battle boldly stood. 
Till wounded and o'erpower'd at length, 
And stripp'd of all, his failing strength 
Just bore him here— and then the child 
Renew'd again his moaning wild. 



The tear down childhcod's cheek that flows, 
Is like the dewdrop on the rose ; 
When next the summer breeze comes by, 
And waves the bush, the flower is dry. 
Won by their care, the orphan Child 
Soon on his new protector sm.iled, 
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair. 
Through his thick curls of flaxea hair, 
lUit blithest laugh'd that cheek and eye, 
When Rokeby's little maid was r.i^Th ; 
'Twas his, with elder troth.ef s ^rice, 
i.Iatilda's tottering steps to guide; 
His native lays in Irish tongue. 
To soothe her infant ear he sung. 
And primrose twined with daisy fair. 
To form a chaplet for her hair, 
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's jtrand, 
The children still were hand in hand. 
And good Sir R.ichard smiling eyed 
The early knot so kindly tied. 

XII 

But summer months bring wilding shoot 

From bud to bloom, from bh om to fruit ; 

And years draw on our human span. 

From child to boy, from boy to man ; 

And soon in Rokeby's weeds is seen 

A gallant boy in hunter's grci n. 

He loves to wake the felon bo.ir, 

In his dark haunt on Greta's shore, 

And loves, against the deer so dun, 

To draw the shaft, or lift the run. 

Yet more he loves, in autunm prime, 

The hazel's spreading boughs to ciimb, 

And down its cluster'd stores to hail, 

Where young Matilda holds her vail, 

And she, whose veil receives the shov/er, 

Is alter'd too, and knows her power ; 

Assumes a monitress's pride. 

Her Redmond's dangero^is sports to chide* 

Yet listens still to hear him tell 

How th^grim wild-boar fought and f.",!!. 

How at his fall the bugle rung. 

Till rock and greenwood answer flung; 

Then blesses her, that man can find 

A pastime of such savage kind ! 

XIII. 

But Redmond knew to weave his tali? 
So well with praise of wood and dale, 
And knew so well each point to trace, 
Gives living interest to the chase. 
And knew so well o'er all to throw 
I tiis spirit's wild romantic glow, 



i^o6 



SCO TT 'S FOE TICAL WORKS. 



That, whib sh^ Uamrd, and while she 

fear'd, 
She loved each venturous tale she heard. 
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain 
To bower and hall their steps restrain, 
Together they expl> red the page 
Of glowing bard or gif :ed sage : 
Oft, placed th • evening fire beside, 
The minstrel art alternate tried. 
While gladsom harp and lively lay 
Bade winter night flit fast away : 
Thus, from their childhccd, blending still 
Their sport, their study, and their skill, 
An union of th soul they prove, 
But must not think that it was love. 
But though they dared not, envious Fame 
Soon dared to giv that union name ; 
And when so often, sid: by side, 
From yeart ) year the pair she eyed, 
She sometimes blamed the good old Knight, 
As dull of ear and dim of sight. 
Sometimes his purpose would declare, 
That y^ung O'Neale should wed his heir. 



The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise 
And bandage from the lovers' eyes ; 
'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son, 
Had Rokebys favor v.ellnigh won. 
Now must they meet with change of cheer, 
With mutual looks of shame and fear ; 
Now must Matilda stray apart, 
To school her disobechent heart : 
And Redmond now alone must rue 
The love he never can subdue. 
But factions rose, and Rokeby sware 
No rebel's son should wed his heir ; 
And Redmond, nurtured while a child 
In many a bard's traditions wild, 
Now sought the lonely wood or stream. 
To cherisii there a happier dream. 
Of maiden won by sv.ord or lance, * 
As in the regions of romance ; 
• And coimt the heroes of his line, 
Great Nial of the Pledges Nine,'*^ 
i^hane Dymas^-* wild, and Geraldine,'^^ 
And Ccnnan-mcre, who vow'd his race 
Forever to the fight and chase, 
And CMfsid him, of his lineage born. 
Should sheathe the sword to reap the corn, 
Dr leave the mountain and the wold, 
To shr.'ud himself in castled hold. 
From "iuch examples hope he drew, 
Und brif.hten'd as the trumpet blew. 



XV. 

If brides were won by heart and blade, 
Redmond had both his cause to aid, 
And all beside of nurture rare 
That miglU beseem a baron's heir. 
Turlough O'Neale, m Erin's strife. 
On Rokeby 's Lord bestow'd his life, 
And well did Rokeby's generous Knight 
Young Redmond for the deed requite. 
Nor was his liberal care and cost 
Upon the gallant stripling lost ; 
Seek the North Riding broad and wide, W'^ 
Like Redmond none could steed bestride; 
From Tynemouth search to Cumberland, 
Like Redmond none could wield a brand; 
And then, of humor kind and free, 
And bearing him to each degree 
\Vith frank and fearless courtesy. 
There never youth was form'd to steal 
Upon the heart like brave O'Neale. 

XVI. 

Sir Richard loved him as his son ; 
And when the days of peace were done, 
And to the gales of war h^ gave 
The banner of his sires to wave, 
Redmond, distinguish'd by his care. 
He chose that hcnor'd flag to bear, 
And named his page, the next degree, 
In that old time, to chivalry 4& 
In five p^itch'd fields he well maintain'd 
The honor'd place his worth obtain'd, 
And high was Redmond's youthful nam* 
Blazed in th; roll of martial fame. 
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight. 
The eve had seen him dubb'd a knight; 
Twice, mid th: battle's doubtful strife. 
Of Rokeby's Lord he saved the life. 
Eut when he saw hiiji prisoner made, 
He kiss'd and then resign'd his blade, 
And yielded him an easy prey 
To those who led the Knight away ; 
Resolved Matilda's sire should prove 
In prison, as m fight, his love 

XVII 

When lovers meet m adverse hour, 
'Tis like a sun-ghmpse through a shower- 
A watery ray, an mstant seen 
The darkly closing clouds between. 
As Redmond on the turf reclined. 
The past and present fill'd his mind ; 
•' It was not thus," Affection said, 
" I dream'd of my return, dear maid ! 
Not thus, when from thy trembling hand, 
I took the banner and the brand. 
When round me, as the bugles blew. 
Their blades three hundred warriors drew, 



ROKEBY. 



207 



And, while the standard I imroU'd, 
Ciash'd their bright arms, with clamor 

bold. 
Where is that banner now ? — its pride 
Lic;s 'whelm'd in Ouse's sullen tide ! 
Where now these warriors ? — in their gore. 
They cumber Marston's dismal moor 1 
And what avails a useless brand, 
Held by a captive's shackled hand, 
That only would his life retain, 
To aid thy sire to bear his chain ! " 
Thus Redmond to himself apart ; 
Nor lighter was his rival's heart ; 
For Wilfrid, while his generous soul 
Disdain'd to profit by control, 
By many a sign could mark too plain, 
Save with such aid, his hopes were vain — 
But now Matilda's accents stole 
On the dark visions of their soul. 
And bade their mournful musing fly, 
Like mist before the zephyr's sigh. 



" I need not to my friends recall, 

How Mortham shunn'd my father's hall ; 

A man of silence and of woe. 

Yet ever anxious to bestow 

On my poor self whate'er could prove 

A kinsman's confidence and love. 

My feeble aid could sometimes chase 

The clouds of sorrow for a space : 

But oftener, fix'd beyond my power, 

I mark'd his deep despondence lower. 

One dismal cause, by all unguess'd, 

His fearful confidence confess'd ; 

And twice it was my hap to see 

Examples of that agony, 

Which for a season can o'erstrain 

And wreck the structure of the brain. 

He had the awful power to know 

The approaching mental overthrow. 

And while his mind had courage yet 

To struggle with the dreadful fit, 

The victim writhed against its throes. 

Like wretch beneath a murderer's blows. 

This malady, I well could mark. 

Sprung from some direful cause and dark : 

But still he kept its source conceal'd, 

Till arming for the civil field ; 

Then in my charge he bade me hold 

A treasure huge of gems and gold, 

With this disjointed dismal scroll, 

That tells the secret of his soul, 

In such wild words as oft betray 

A mind by anguish forced astray. "- 



mortham's history. 

'• Matilda ! thou hast seen me start, 
As if a dagger thrill'd my heart, 
When it has hap'd some casual phrase 
Waked memory of my former days. 
Believe, tliat few can backward cast 
Their thoughts with pleasure on tlse past; 
But I ! — my youth was rash and vain, 
And blood and rage my manhood stam, 
And my gray hairs must no>v descend 
To my cold grave without a friend ! 
Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown 
Thy kinsman, when his guilt is known. 
And must I lift the bloody veil, 
That hides my dark and fatal tale ! 
I must — I will — Pale phantom, cease ! 
Leave me one little hour in peace ! 
Thus haunted, think'st thou I have skill 
Thine own commission to fulfil ? 
Or, while thou point'st witli gesture fierce, 
Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse, 
How can I paint thee as thou wert, 
So fair in face, so warm in heart i 



" Yes, she was fair ! — IMatilda, thou 

Hast a soft sadness on thy brow ; 

But hers was like the sunny glow, 

That laughs on. earth and all below ! 

We wedded secret — there was need — 

Differing in country and in creed ; 

And, when to Mortham's tower she came, 

We mention'd not her race and name, 

Until thy sire, who fought afar, 

Should turn him home from foreign war, 

On whose kind influence we relied 

To sooth her father's ire and pride. 

Few months we lived retired, unknown, 

To all but one dear friend alone, 

One darling friend — I spare his shame, 

I will not write the villain's name ! 

My trespasses I might forget. 

And sue in vengeance for the debt 

Due by a brother worm to me. 

Ungrateful to God's clemency. 

That spared me penitential time, 

Nor cut me off amid my crime. — 



" A kindly smile to all she knt. 
But on her husband's friend 'twas bent 
So kind, that from its harmless glee, 
The wretch misconstrued villany. 
Repulsed in his presumptuous love, 
A vengeful snare the traitor wove. 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS- 



Alone we sat — the flask had flow'd, 

My blood with heat unwonted glow'd. 

When through the alley'd wall: we spied 

With hurned step my Edith glide, 

Cowering beneath the verdant screen, 

As one unwilling to be seen. 

VVords cannot paint the fiendish smile, 

That curi'd the traitor's cheek the while I 

Fiercely I question'd of the cause ; 

He made a cold and artful pause, 

Then pray'd it might not chafe my mood- 

' There was a gallant in the wood ! ' 

We had been shooting at the deer ; 

My crnss-bow (evil chance 1) was near: 

That ready weapon of my wrath 

I caught, and, hasting up the path, 

In the yew grove my wife I found, 

A stranger's arms her neck had bound ! 

1 niark'd his heart — the bow I drew — 

T loosed the shalt — 'twas more than true ! 

T found my Edith's dying charms 

Lock'd in her murder'd brother's arms ' 

He came in secret to Inquire 

Her state, and reconcile her sire. 



'* All fled my rage— the villain first, 
Whose craft my jealousy h::d nursed ; 
He sought in far an(! f r-reign clime 
To 'scape the vengcp.nce of hir. crime. 
The manner of th: slaughter done 
Was knrwn to few, my gui't to none ; 
Some tale my faithfu', steward framed — 
I know not what — of shift mis-aim'd ; 
And even from those the act who knew, 
He hid the hand from which it flew. 
Untouch'd by"human laws I stood, 
But God had heard the cry of blood ! 
There is a blank upon my mind, 
A fearful vision ill-defined. 
Of raving till my flesh was torn,- 
Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn — 
And when I waked to woe more mild. 
And question'd of my infant child — 
(Have I not written, that she bare 
A boy, like summer morning fair?) — 
With looks confused my menials tell 
That armed men in Mortham dell 
Beset the nurse's evening way. 
And bore her, with her charge, away. 
My. faithless friefid, and none but he, 
Could profit by this villany ; 
Him, then, I sought, with purpose dread 
Of treble vengeance on his head ! 
He 'scaped me — but my bosom's wound 
Some faint relief from wandering found ; 



And over distant land and sea 
1 bore my load of misery. 

XXIII, 

" 'Twas then that fate my footsteps led 

Among a daring crew and dread, 

With whom full of: my hated life 

I ventured in such desperate strife, 

That even my fierce associates saw 

l\Iy frantic deeds with doubt and awe. 

Ivluch then I learn'd, and much can show, 

Of human guilt and human woe, 

Yet ne'er have, in my wanderings, knov/n 

A wretch whose sorrows match'd my 

own ! — 
It chanced, that after battle fray, 
Upon the bloody field we lay ; 
The yellow moon her lustre shed 
Upon the wounded and the dead, 
While, sense in toil and wassail drown'd, 
My ruffian comrades slept around. 
There came a voice — its silver tone 
Was soft, Matilda, as thine own— 
' Ah, wretch ' ' it said, ' what makest thou 

here, 
While unavenged my bloody bier, 
While unprotected lives mine heir, 
Without a father's name and care?' 

XXIV. 

" I heard — obey'd — and homeward drew 
The fiercest of our desperate crew 
I brought at time of need to aid 
My purposed vengeance, long delay'd. 
But, humble bt my thanks to Heaven, 
That better hopes and thoughts has given, 
And by our Lord's dear prayer has taught, 
Mercy by mercy must be bought ! — 
Let me in misery rejoice — 
I've seen his face — I've heard his voice— 
I claim'd of him my only child — 
As he disown'd the theft, he smiled ! 
That very calm and callous look, 
That fiendish sneer his visage took, 
As when he said, in scornful mood, 
' There is a gallant in the wood ! ' 
j I did not slay him as he stood— 
All praise be to my I'.Iakcr given ! 
Long sufferance is one p<ath to heaven." 

XXV. 

Thus far the woeful talc wis heard, 
When something in the thicktt Ltirr'd. 
Up Redmond sprung ; tht vilhan Guy, 
(For he it was that lurk'd s ■ nigli.) 
Drew back — he durst not ctoss his sieel 
A moment's space with bravt CNeale, 



ROKEBY. 



209 



For all tlie treasured gold that rests 
In Mortham's iron-banded chests. 
Redmond resumed his seat ; — he said, 
Some roe was rustling in the shade. 
Bertram laugh'd grimly when he saw 
His timorous comrade backward dravy ; 
" A trusty mate art thou, to fear 
A single arm, and aid so near 1 
Yet have I seen tliee mark a deer. 
Give me thy carabine — I'll show, 
An art that thou wilt gladly know. 
How thou mayst safely quell a foe." 

XXVI. 

On hands and knees fierce Bertram drew ' 

The spreading birch and hazels through. 

Till he had Redmond full in view ; 

The gun he levell'd — Mark like this 

Was Bertram never knovvn to niiss, 

When fair opposed to aim there sate 

An object of his mortal hate. 

That day young Redmond's death had seen, 

But twice Matilda came between 

The carabine and Redmond's breast, 

Just ere the spring his finger press'd. 

A deadly oath the ruffian swore, 

But yet his fell design forbore : 

" It ne'er," he mutter'd, " shall he said, 

That thus I scath'd thee, haughty maid ! » 

Then moved to seek more cpen aim, 

When to his side Guy Denzil came : 

" Bertram, forbear ! — we are undone 

Forever, if thou fire the gun. 

By all the fiends, an armed force 

Descends the dell, of foot and horse ! 

We perish if they hear a shot — 

Ala'^man ! we have a safer pkt — 

Nay, friend, be ruled, and bear thee back ! 

Behold, down yonder hollow track, 

The warlike leader of the band 

Comes, with his broadsword in his hand." 

Bertram look'd up ; h^saw, he new 

That Denzil's fears had counsell'd true. 

Then cursed his fortune and withdrew, 

Threaded the woodlands undescried. 

And gained the cave on Greta side. 



They whom dark Bertram, in his wrath, 
Doom'd to captivity or death, 
Their thoughts to one sad subject lent. 
Saw not nor heard the ambushment. 
Heedless and unconcern'd they sate, 
W!iile on the very verge of fate ; 
Heedless and unconcern'd remain'd. 
When Heaven the murderer's arm restrain'd ; 



As ships drift darkling down the tide, 

Nor see the shelves o'er which they glide. 

Uninterrupted thus they heard 

Wlmt Mortham's closing tale declared. 

He spoke of wealth as of a load, 

By Fortune on a wretch bestow'd, 

In bitter mockery of hate, 

His cureless woes to aggravate ; 

But yet he pray'd Matilda's care 

Might save that treasure for his heir- 

His Edith's son — for still he raved 

As confident his life was saved ; 

In frequent vision, he averr'd. 

He saw his face, his voice he heard ; 

Then argued calm — had murder been, 

The blood, the corpses, had been seen : 

Some had pretended, too, to mark 

On Windermere a stranger bark. 

Whose crew, with jealous care, yet mild. 

Guarded a female and a child. 

While these faint proofs he told and press'd, 

Hope seem'd to kindle in his breast ; 

Though inconsistent, vague, and vain, 

It warp'd his judgment, and his brain. 

XXVIII. 

These solemn words his story close : — 
" Heaven witness for me, that I chose 
My part in this sad civil fight, 
Moved by no cause but England's right. 
My country's groans have loid me draw 
My sword for Gospel and for law ; — 
These righted, I fling arms aside. 
And seek my son through Europe wide. 
My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh 
Already casts a grasping eye. 
With thee may unsuspected lie. 
When of my death Matilda hears, 
Let her retain her trust three years ; 
If none, from me, the treasure claim, 
Perish'd is Mortham's race and name. 
Then let it leave her generous hand, 
And flow in bounty o'er the land ; 
Soften the wounded prisoner's lot, 
Rebuild the peasant's ruin'd cot ; 
So spoils, acquired by fight afar, 
Shall mitigate domestic war." 

XXIX. 

The generous youths, who well had knows 
Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone. 
To that high mind, by sorrow swerved, 
Gave sympathy his woes deserved ; 
But W^ilfrid chief, who saw reveal'd 
Why Mortham wisli'd liis life conceal'd, 
In secret, doubtless, to pursue 
The schemes his wilder' d fancy drew. 



2IO 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK^ 



Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell, 

That she would share her father's cell, 

liis partner of captivitj', 

^Vhere'er his prison-house should be ; 

Yet grieved to think that Rokeby hall, 

Dismantled, and forsook by all. 

Open to rapine and to stealth. 

Had now no safe-guard for the wealth 

Intrusted by her kinsman kind, 

And for such noble use design'd, 

^' Was Barnard Castle then her choice," 

Wilfrid inquired with hasty voice, 

" Since there the victor's laws ordain, 

Her father must a space remain ? " 

A flutter' d hope his accent shook, 

A flutter'd joy was in his look. 

Matilda hasten'd to reply, 

For anger ftash'd in Redmond's eye ; — 

" Duty," sh3 said, with gentle grace, 

" Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place ; 

Else had I fcr my sire assign'd 

Prison less galling to his mind, 

Than that his wild-wood haunts which sees 

A.nd hears the murmurs of the Tees, 

Recalling thus, with every glance. 

What captive's sorrow can enhance ; 

But where those woes are highest, there 

Needs Rokeby most his daughter's care." 

XXX. 

He felt the kindly check she gave. 

And stood abash'd — then ansv/er'd grave : 

" I sought thy purpose, noble maid, 

Thy doubts to clear, thy scliemes to aid. 

1 have beneath mine own command. 

So wills my sire, a gallant band. 

And well could send some horseman wight 

To bear the treasure forth by night, 

And so bestow it as you deem 

In these ill davs may safest seem." — 

" Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks," she said : 

*' O, be it not one day delay'd ! 

And, more, thy sister- friend to aid, 

Be thou thyself content to hold. 

In thine own keeping, Mortham's gold, 

•fifest with thee." — While thus she spoke, 

c.rm'd S'udiers en their converse broke, 

The sam: of whose approach afraid. 

The ruffians left their ambuscade. 

Their chief tc Wilfrid bended low, 

Then look'd -.round r.s fcr a foe. 

" What mean's! th&u, friend," young Wy- 

cliffe said, 
•* Why thus in arms bosct the glade ? "— 
" I'hat would I gladh Icr.rr. irs.w you : 
For up my squadron as I dr.^\v, 



To exercise our martial game 
Upon thi moor of Barninghame, 
A stranger told you were waylaid, 
Surrounded, and to death betray'd. 
He had a leader's voice, I ween, 
A falcon glance, a warrior's mien. 
He bade me bring you instant aid ; 
I doubted not, and I obey'd." 

XXXI. 

Wilfrid changed color, and, amazed, 
Turn'd short, and on the speaker gazed l 
While Redmond every thicket round 
Track'd earnest as a questing hound, 
And Denzil's carabine he found ; 
Sure evidence, by which they knew 
The warning was as kind as true. 
Wisest it seem'd, with cautious speed 
To leave the dell. It was agreed, 
That Redmond, with Matilda fair. 
And fitting guard, should home repair ; 
At nightfairwilfrid should attend. 
With a strong band, his sister-friend, 
To bear with her from Rokeby's bowers 
To Barnard Castle's lofty towers, 
Secret and safe the banded chests, 
In which the wealth of Mortham rests. 
This hasty purpose fix'd, they part. 
Each with a grieved and anxious heart. 



CANTO FIFTH. 
I. 

The sultry summer day is done, 

The western hills hav3 hid the sun, 

But mountain pfeak and village spirs 

Retain reflection of his fire. 

Old Barnard's towers are purple still, 

To those that gaze from Toller-hili ; * 

Distant and h'.gh. the tov.-er cf Bowes 

Like steel upon the anvil glows ; 

And Stanmore's ridge, behind that lay, 

Rich with the spoils of parting day, 

In crimson and in gold array'd, 

Streaks yet a while the closing shade. 

Then slow resigns to darkening heaven 

The tints which brigliter hours had given. 

Thus aged men, full lolh and slow. 

The vanities of life forego, 

And count their youthful follies o'er, 

Till Memory lends her light no more. 

II. 
The eve, that slow on upland fades. 
Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades, 
Where, sunk within theii banks profound 
Her gioardian streams ta meeting wound. 



ROFCEBY. 



t\l 



The stately oaks, wlioss sombre frown 
Cf noontide made a twiliglit brown, 
Impervious now to fainter lipjht, 
Of twiliglit make an early night. 
Hoarse into middle air arose 
The vespers of the roosting crows, 
And with congenial murmurs seem 
To wake the Genii of the stream ; 
For louder clamor'd Greta's tide, 
And Tees in deeper voice replied. 
And fitful waked tb.e evening wind. 
Fitful in sighs its breath resign'd. 
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurt«red soul 
Felt in the scene a soft control, 
With lighter footstep press' d the ground, 
And often paused to look around ; 
And, though his path was to his love, 
Could not but linger in the grove. 
To drink the thrilling interest dear, 
Of awful pleasure check'd by fear. 
Such inconsistent moods have we, 
Even when our passions strike the key. 

III. 

Now, through the wood's dark mazes past, 
The opening lawn he reach'd at last. 
Where, silver'd by the moonlight ray, 
The ancient Hall before him lay. 
Those martial terrors long were fled, 
That frown'd of old around its head : 
The battlements, the turrets gray, 
Seem'd half abandon'd to decay ; *7 
On barbican and keep of stone 
Stern Time the foeman's work had done. 
Where banners the invader braved, 
The harebell now and wallflower waved ; 
In the rude guard-room, where of yore 
Their weary hours the warders wore, 
Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze. 
On the paved floor the spindle plays ; 
The flanking guns dismounted lie, 
The moat is ruinous and dry. 
The grim portcullis gone — and all 
The fortress turn'd to peaceful Hall. 



But yet precautions, lately ta'en, 

Show'd danger's day revived again ; 

The court-yard wall show'd marks of care, 

The fall'n defences to repair, 

Lending such strength as might withstand, 

The insult of marauding band. 

The beams once more were taught to bear 

The trembling drawbridge into air, 

And not, till question'd o'er and o'er, 

For Wilfrid oped the jealous door, 



And when he enter'd, bolt and bar 
Resumed their place with sullen jar ; 
Then, as he cross'd the vaulted porch, 
The old gray porter raised his torch, 
And view'd him o'er, from foot to head, 
Ere to the hall his steps he led. 
That huge old hall, of knightly state. 
Dismantled seem'd and desolate. 
The moon through transcm-shafts of stone. 
Which cross'd the latticed oriels, shone, 
And by the mournful light she gave, 
The Gothic vault seem'd funeral cave. 
Pennon and banner waved no mere 
O'er beams of stag and tusks of bear. 
Nor glimmering arms were marshali'd seen, 
To glance those sylvan spoils between. 
Those arms, those ensigns, borne away, 
Accomplish'd Rokeby's brave array, 
But all were lost on Marstcn's day! 
Yet here and there the moonbeams fall 
Where armor yet adorns the wall. 
Cumbrous of size, uncouth to sight, 
And useless in the modern fight ! 
Like veteran relic of the wars, 
Known only by neglected scars. 



Matilda soon to greet him came. 

And bade them light the evening flame ; 

Said, all for parting was prepared, 

And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard. 

But then, reluctant to unfold 

His father's avarice of gold, 

He hinted, that lest jealous eye 

Should on their precious burden pry, 

He judged it best the castle gate 

To enter when the night wore late ; 

And therefore he had left command 

With those he trusted of his band, 

That they should be at Rokeby met. 

What time the midnight-watch was set. 

Now Redmond came, whose anxious cars 

Till then was busied to prepare 

All needful, meetly to arrange 

The rtkinsion for its mournful chan^^e. 

With Wilfrid's care and kindness plei^ssdg 

His cold unready hand he se'.zed, 

And press'd it, till his kindiy strain 

The gentle youth return'd aga'..-:. 

Seem'd as between them this wau said, 

'• A while let jealousy be dead ; 

And let our contest be, v.-hrse c?.re 

Shall best assist this helpless fair," 



There was no speech the truce to bind, 
It was a compact of the mind, — 



2512 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



A generous thought, at once impress'd 

On either rival's generous breast. 

Matilda vveii the secret tooK, 

From sudden change of misn and look; 

And — for not small had been her fear 

Of jealous ire and danger near — 

Felt, even in her dejected state, 

A joy beyond the reach of fate. 

They closed beside the chimney's blaze, 

And talk'd and hoped for happier days. 

And lent their spirits' rising glow 

A while to gild impending woe ; — 

High privilege of youthful time^ 

Worth all the pleasures of our prime ! 

The bickering fagot sparkled bright, 

And gave the scene of lov6 to sight, 

Bade Wilfrid's cheek more hvely glow, 

Play'd on Matilda's neck of snow. 

Her nut-brown curls and forehead high, 

And laugh'd in Redmond's azure eye. 

Two lovers by the maiden sate. 

Without a glance of jealous hate ; 

The maid her lovers sat between, 

With open brow and equal mien ;-r- 

It is a sight but rarely spied, 

Thanks to man's wrath and woman's pride. 



While thus in peaceful guise they sate, 
A knock alarm'd the outer gate, 
And ere the tardy porter stirr'd, 
The tinkling of a harp was heard. 
A manly voice of mellow swell, 
Bore burden to the music well. 



" Summer eve is gone and past, 
Summer dew is falling fast ; — 
I have wander'd all the day, 
Do not bid me farther stray I 
Gentle hearts, of gentle kin. 
Take the wandering harper in 1 " 

But the stern porter answer gave, 

With " Get thee hence, thou strolling fhave 

The king wants soldiers ; war, I trow, 

Were meeter trade for such as thou." 

At this unkind reproof, again 

^nswer'd the ready Minstrel's strain. 

SONG RESUMED. 

" Bid not me, in battle-field, 
Buckler lift, or broadsword wield I 
All my strength and all my art 
Is to touch the gentle heart. 
With the wizaf-d notes that ring 
From the peaceful minstrel-string." 



The porter, all unmoved, replied, — 
" Depart in peace, with Heaven to guid«; 
If longer by the gate thou dwell.- 
Trust me, thou shalt not part so well." 

VIII. 

With somewhat of appealing look, 

The harper's part young Wilfrid took: 

" These notes so wild and ready thrill, 

They show no vulgar minstrel's skill ; 

Hard were his task to seek a home 

More distant, since the night is come ; 

And for his faith I dare engage — 

Your Harpool's blood is sour'd by age * 

His gate, once readily display'd, 

To greet the friend-, the poor to aid, 

Now even to me, though known of old, 

Did but reluctantly unfold." 

" O blame not, as poor Harpool's crime,' 

An evil of this evil time. 

He deems dependent on his care 

The safety of his patron's heir, 

Nor judges meet to ope the tower 

To guest unknown at parting liour. 

Urging his duty to excess 

Of rough and stubborn faithfulness. 

For this poor harper, 1 would fain 

He may relax v — Hark to his strain t "-r 

IX. 
SONG RESUMED. 

" I have song of war for knight, 
Lay of love for lady bright. 
Fairy tale to lull the heir. 
Goblin grim the maids to scare. 
Dark the night, and long till day. 
Do not bid me farther stray ! 

" Rokeby's lore's of martial fame, 
I can count them name by name ^ 
Legends of their line there be, 
Known to few, but known to me ; 
If you honor Rokeby's kin. 
Take the wandering harper in ! 

" Rokeby's lords had fair regard 
For the harp, and for the bard : 
Baron's race throve never well. 
Where the curse of minstrel fell. 
If you love that noble kin. 
Take the weary harper in ! " — 

" Hark ! Harpool parleys — there is hope,'* 
Said Redmond, " that the gate will cpe."— • 
— " For all thy brag and boast, I t:ow, 
Nought know'st thou of the Felon Sow," 
Quoth Harpool, " nor how Greta-side 
She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide ; 



ROKEBY. 



21-? 



Now how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast 
To Richmond's friars to make a feast. 
Of Gilbert Griffinson the tala> 
Gees, and of gallant Peter Dale, 
That well could strike with sword amain, 
And of th2 valiant son of Spain, 
Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph : 
There was a jest to make us laugh ! 
If thou canst tell it, in yon shed 
Thou'st won thy, supper and thy bed." 



Matilda smiled ; " Cold hope," said she, 
*' From H.irpool's love of minstrelsy I 
Bat, for this harper, may we dare, 
Redmond, to mend his couch and fare ? "— 
*' O, ask me not 1 —At minstrel-string 
My heart from infancy would spring ; 
2*Jor can I hear its simplest strain, 
Bi:t it brings Erin's dream again. 
When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee, 
(The Filea of 6'Neaie was he,49 
A blind and bearded man, whose eld 
Was sacred as a prophet's held,) 
I've seen a ring of nigged kerne. 
With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern, 
Enchanted by the master's lay. 
Linger around the livelong day, 
Shift from wild rage to wilder glee, 
To love, to grief, to ecstasy. 
And feel each varied change of soul 
Obedient to the bard's control — 
Ah, Clandeboy ! thy friendly floor 
Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no more \^° 
Kor Owen's harp, beside the blaze, 
Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise ! 
The mantling brambles hide thy hearth, 
Centre of hospitable mirth ; 
All undistinguish'd in the glade, 
My sires' glad home is prostrate laid, 
Their vassals wander wide and far, 
Serve foreign lords in distant war. 
And now the stranger's sons enjoy 
The lovely woods of Clandeboy ! " 
He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside. 
The starting tear to dry and hide. 



Matilda's dark and soften'd eye 

Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry. 

tier hand upon his arm she laid,^ 

^ It is the Will of Heaven," she said. 

" And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part 

From this loved home with lightsome 

heart, 
Leaving to wild neglect whate'er 
^ven irora my infancy was dear ? 



For in this calm domestic bound 

Were all Matilda's pleasures found. 

That hearth, my sire was wont to grace, 

Full soon may be a stranger's place; 

This hall, in which a child I play'd,_ 

Like thine, dear Redmond, Icwly laid. 

The bramble and the thorn may braid ; 

Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine, 

It ne'er may shelter Rokeby" s line. 

Yet is this consolation given, 

My Redmond — 'tis the will of Heaven.** 

Her word, her action, and her phrase, 

Were kindly as in early days ; 

For cold reserve had lost its power, 

In sorrow's sympathetic hour. 

Young Redmond dared not trust his voice*. 

But rather had it been his choice 

To share that melancholy hour. 

Than, arm'd with all a chieftain's power, 

In full possession to enjoy 

Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy. 



The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek ; 

Matilda sees, and hastes to speak. — 

'' Happy in friendship's ready a.'d. 

Let all my murmurs hcie be staid ! 

And Rokeby's Maiden will not part 

From Rokeby's hall with mr^ody heart. 

This night at least, for Koke'oy's fame, 

The hospitable hearth shall flame, 

And, ere its native heir retire, 

Find for the wanderer rest and f.re. 

While this poor harper, by th- blaze. 

Recounts the tale of other d'.ys. 

Bid Harpool ope the door with speed, 

Admit him, and relieve each need. — 

Meantime, kind Wychffc, wilt thou try 

Thy minstrel skill ?— Nay, no reply— 

And look not sad !— I guess thy thought. 

Thy verse with laurels would bo bought ; 

And poor Matilda, landless new. 

Has not a garland for thy brow. 

True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades. 

Nor wander more in Crreta's shades ; 

But sure, no rigid jailer, thou 

Wilt a short prison-walk allow. 

Where summer flowers grow wild 

will, 
On Marwood-chase and Toller HiU ; ^* 
Then holly green and lily gay 
Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay." 
The mournful youth, a space aside, 
To tune Matilda's harp applied ; 
And then a low sad descant rung, 
As prelude to the lay he sung. 



«14 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE CYPRESS WREATH. 

O, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 
Too lively glow the lilies light, 
The varnish'd holly's all too bright, * 

Tlie May-flower and the eglantine 
May shade a brow less sad than mine ; 
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me, 
Or weave it of the cypress-tree! 

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
With tendrils of the laughing vine ; 
The manly oak, the pensive yew. 
To patriot and to sage be due ; 
The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine if of the cypress-tree ! 

Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended roses, bought so dear ; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew; 
On favor'd Erin's crest be seen 
TTie flower she loves of emerald green — 
But, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Dr twine it of the cypress-tree. 

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ; 
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves, 
With bloody hand the victor weaves. 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; 
But, when you hear the passing-bell, 
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me, • 
And twine it of the cypress-tree. 

Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough ; 
But, O Matilda, twine not now ! 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I have look'd and loved my last ' 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — 
Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me. 
And weave it of the cypress-tree, 

XIV 

O'Neale observed the starting tear. 

And spoke with kind and blithesome 

cheer — 
*' No, noble Wilfrid ! ere the day 
When mourns tlie land thy silent lay, 
Shall m.any a wreatii be freely wove 
By hand of friendship and of love. 
I would not wish that rigid Fate 
Had doom'd thee to a captive's state. 



Whose hands are bound by honor's law, 
Who wears a sword he must not draw ; 
But were it so, m Minstrel pride 
The land together would we ride, 
On prancing steeds, like harpers old, 
Bound for the halls of barons bold, 
Each lover of the lyre we'd seek, 
From Michael's Mount to Skiddaw > 

Peak, 
Survey wild Albin's mountain strand, 
And roam green Erin's lovely land, 
While thou the gentler souls should move^ 
With lay of pity and of love, 
And I, thy mate, in rougher strain, 
Would sing of war and warriors slain. 
Old England's bards were vanquish'd thai. 
And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden, 
And, silenced on lernian shore, 
M'Curtin's harp should charm no more! " 
In lively mood he spoke, to wile 
From Wilfrid's woe-worn cheek a smile. 

XV. 

" But," said Matilda, "ere thy name. 

Good Redmond, gain its destined fame, 

Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call. 

Thy brother-minstrel to the hall ? 

Bid all the household, too, attend, 

Each in his rank a humble friend ; 

I know their faithful hearts will grieve, 

When their poor Mistress takes her leave ; 

So let the horn and beaker flow 

To mitigate their parting woe." 

The harper came ; — in youth's first prime 

Himself ; in mode of olden time 

His garb was fashion'd, to express 

The ancient English minstrel's dress,^* 

A seemly gown of Kendal green, 

With gorget closed of silver sheen ; 

His harp in silken scarf was slung, 

And by his side an anlace hung. 

It seem'd some masquer's quaint array, 

For revel or for holiday. 

XVI, 

He made obeisance with a free 
Yet studied air of courtesy. 
Each look and accent, framed to please^ 
Seem'd to affect a playful ease ; 
His face was of that doubtful kind, 
That wins the eye, but not the mind ; 
Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss 
Of brow so young and smooth as this. 
His was the subtle look and sly, 
That, spying all, seems nought to spy; 
Round all the group his glances stole, 
Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole* 



ROKEBY 



H 



?et sunk beneath Matilda's look, 
Nor could the eye of Redmond brook. 
To the suspicious, or the old, 
Subtile and dangerous and bold 
Had seem'd this self-invited guest ; 
But young our lovers, — and the rest, 
Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear 
At parting of their Mistress dear 
Tear-blinded to the Castle-hall 
Came as to bear her funeral pall. 



All that expression base was gone, 

When waked the guest his minstrel tone ; 

It fled at inspiration's call. 

As erst the demon fled from Saul. 

More noble glance he cast around, 

More free-drawn breath inspired the sound, 

His pulse beat bolder and more high, 

In all the pride of minstrelsy ! 

Alas ! too soon that pride was o'er. 

Sunk with the lay that bade it soar ! 

His soul resumed, with habit's chain, 

Its vices wild and follies vain, 

And gave the talent, with him born, 

To be a common cursj and scorn. 

Such was the youtli whom Rokeby's Maid, 

With condescending kindness, pray'd 

Here to renew the strains she loved, 

At distance heard and well approved. 



The narp. 
I was a wild and wayward boy, 
My childhood scorn'd each childish toy, 
Retired from all, reserved and coy, 

To musing prone, 
I woo'd my solitary joy, 

My Harp alone. 

My youth, with bold Ambition's mood, 
Despised the humble stream and wood. 
Where my poor father's cottage stood, 

To fame unknown ; — 
What should niy soaring views make good ? 

My Harp alone ! 

Love came v/ith all his frantic fire, 
And v(nld romance of vain desire . 
The baron's daughter heard my lyre, 

And praised th:; tone ; — 
What could presumptuous hope inspire? 

My Harp alon.- ! 

At manhood's touch th; bubble burst, 
.ind manhood's pride tho vision curst, 



And all that had myfolly nursed 

Love's sway to own ; 
Yet spared the spell that luU'd me first, 

My Harp alone ! 

Woe came with war, and want with woe ;^ 
And it was mine to undergo 
Each outrage of the rebel foe :— 

Can aught atone 
My fields laid waste, my cot laid low ? 

My Harp alone ! 

Ambition's dreams I've seen depart, 
Have rued of penury the smart, 
Have felt of love the venom' d dart. 

When hope was flown ; 
Yet rests one solace to my heart,— 

My Harp alone ! 

Then over mountain, moor, and hill, 
My faithful Harp, I'll bear thee still; 
And when this life of want and ill 

Is wellnigh gone. 
Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill. 

My Harp alone 1 

XIX. 

" A pleasing lay ! " Matilda said ; 

But Harpool shook his old gray head. 

And took his baton and his torch, 

To seek his guard-room in the porch. 

Edmund observed, witli sudden change, 

Among the strings his fingers range. 

Until they waked a bolder glee 

Of military melody ; 

Then paused amid the martial sound, 

And Icck'd with well-feign'd fear around ;-==> 

" None to this noble house belong," 

He said, " that would a Minstrel wrong, 

Whose fate has been, through good and ill. 

To love his Royal Master still ; 

And with your honor'd leave, would fain 

Rejoice you with a loyal strain." 

Then, as assured by sign and look, 

The warlike tone again he took ; 

And Harpool stopp'd, and turn'd to hear 

A ditty of the Cavalier. 

XX. 

SONG. 

The Cavalier. 

While the dawn on the .mountain was misty 

and fray. 
My true love has mounted his steed and 

away 



tie 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er 

down : 
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights 

for the Crov/n ! 

He has doff'd the silk doublet the breast- 
plate to bear, 

He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long 
flowing hair. 

From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword 
hangs down, — 

Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights 
for the Crown ! 

For the rights of fair England that broad- 
sword he draws. 

Her King is his leader, her Church is his 
cause ; 

His watchword is honor, his pay is re- 
nown, — 

God strike with the Gallant that strikes for 
the Crown ! 

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Wal- 
ler, and all 

The round-headed rebels of Westminster 
Hall; 

But tell these bold traitors of London's 
proud town. 

That the spears of the North have encircled 
the Crown. 

There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of 
their foes ; 

There's Erin's High Ormond, and Scot- 
land's Montrose ! 

Would you match the base Skippon, and 
Massey, and Brown, 

With the Barons of England, that fight for 
the Crown ? 

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier ! 
Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his 

spear. 
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he 

may drown. 
In a pledge to lair England, her Church, 

and her Crown. 

XXI, 

« Alas ! " Matilda said, " that strain. 
Good harper, now is heard in vain ! 
The time has been, at such a sound. 
When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round, 
An hundred manlv hearts would bound ; 
But now the stirring verse we hear, 
Like trump in dying soldier's ear ! 
Listless and sad the notes we own, 
The power to answer them is flown. 



Yet not without his meet applause, 

Be he that sings the rightful causc!, 

Even when the crisis of its fate 

To human eye seems desperate. 

While Rokeby's Heir such power retaitis. 

Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains : — 

And, lend thy harp ; I fain would try, 

If my poor skill can aught supply. 

Ere yet I leave my father's hall. 

To mourn the cause in which we fall." 

XXII. 

The harper, with a downcast look. 
And trembling hand, her bounty took. — 
As yet, the conscio^is pride of art 
Had steel'dhim m his treacherous part; 
A powerful spring, of force unguess'd. 
That hath each geiUUr mood suppress'd. 
And reign'd in mat'.y a human breast ; 
From his that plar % ll:e red campaign, 
To his that wastes the woodland reign. 
The failing wing, ( le blood-shot eye, — 
The sportsman's n arks with apathy, 
Each feeling of his victim's ill 
Drown'd in his o\v i successful skill. 
The veteran, too, \ ho now no more 
Aspires to head the battle's roar, 
Loves still the triu iiph of his art, 
And traces on the pencill'd cliart 
Some stern invade.^ 's destined way 
Through blood ancT. ruin, to his prey ; 
Patriots to death, ?nd towns to flame, 
He dooms, to raise another's name, 
And shares the guiit, though not the iiiUk 
What pays him for his span of time 
Spent in premeditating crime? 
What against pity ;irms his heart ? — 
It is the conscious pride of art. 

JSXIII. 

But principles in EdnMmd's mind 
Were baseless, vague, and undefined. 
His soul, like bark with rudder lost. 
On Passion's changeful tide was tost, 
Nor Vice nor Virtue had the power 
Beyond the impression of the hour ; 
And, O 1 when Passion rules, how rara 
The hours that fall to Virtue's share ! 
Yet now she roused her — fer'the pride* 
That, lack of sterner guilt supplied, 
Could scarce sujjport him whei: arose 
The lay that mourned Matilda's N'Voe.; 



The Farewell, 
The sound of Rokeby's woods 
They mingle with the song : 



hear. 



ROKEBY. 



217 



Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear 

I must not hear them long. 
From every loved and native haunt 

The native Heir must stray, 
And, like a ghost whom sunbeams daunt, 

Must part before the day. 

Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd 

Their scutcheons may descend. 
A line so long beloved and fear'd 

May soon obscurely end. 
.No longer here Matilda's tone 

Shall bid thosa echoes swell ; 
Yet shall they hear her proudly own 

The cause in v/nich we fell. 

The Lady paused, and then again 
Resumed the lay in loftier strain. 

XXIV. 

Let our halk arid towers decay, 

Be our name and line forgot, 
Lands and manors pass away, — 

We but share our Monarch's lot. 
If no mor3 cur arvn:.ls show 

Battles won pnd banners taken, 
Still in death, defeat, and woe, 

Ours be lry?.Ity unshaken ! 

Constant still in danger's hour, 

Princes r wn'd cur fathers' aid ; 
Lands and hrnors, wealth and power. 

Well their loyalty repaid. 
Perish wealth, and power, and pride I 

Mortal boons by mortals given ; 
But let constancv abide, — 

Constancy's the gift of Heaven. 

XXV. 

While thus Matilda's lay was heard, 

A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd. 

In peasant life he might have known 

As fair a face, as sweet a tone ; 

But village notes could ne'er supply 

That rich and varied melody ; 

And ne'er in cottage-maid was seen 

The easy dignity of mien, 

Claiming respect, yet waving state, 

That marks the daughters of the great. 

Yet not, perchance, had these alone 

His scheme of purposed giilt o'erthrown ; 

But while her energy of mind 

Superior rose to griefs corr.bined, 

Lending its kindling to her eye, * 

Giving her form new majesty, — 

To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd 

The very object he had dream'd ; 

When, long ere guilt his soul had known, 

In Winston bowers he mused alone, 



Taxing his fancy to combine 
The face, the air, the voice divine, 
Of princess fair, by cruel fate 
Reft of her honors, power, artd state, 
Till to her rightful realm restored 
By destined hero's conquering sword. 

XXVI. 

" Such was my vision ! '•' Edmund thought^' 

" And have I, then, the ruin wrought 

Of such a maid, that fr.ncy ne'er 

In fairest vision form'd her peer .? 

Was it my handth-.t could unclose 

The postern to her ruthless foes ? 

Foes, lost to honor, law, and faith, 

Their kindest mercy sudden death ! 

Have I done this ? I ! who have swore, 

That if the globe such angel bcrc, 

I would have traced its circle broad, 

To kiss the ground on which she trode ! — 

And now — 6 ! v.culd that earth would rive 

And close upon me v.-hils alive ! — 

Is there no hope ? Is ail then lost .?— 

Bertram's already on his post ! 

Even now, beside the Hall's arch'd doer, 

I saw his slV'dow cress the floor I 

He was to wait my signal strain— 

A little respite thus we gain : 

By what I heard the menials say, 

Young Wycliffe's troop are on their way — • 

Alarm precipitates the crime I 

My harp- must wear away the time." — 

And then, in accents faint and low, 

He falter'd forth a tale of woe. 

XXVII. 
BALLAD. 

" And whither would you lead me then P * 
Quoth the Friar of orders gray ; 

And the Ruffians twam replied again, 
" By a dying woman to pray " 

"■ I see," he said, "a lovely sight, 

A sight bodes little harm, 
A lady as a lily bright, 

With an infant on her arm." — 

" Then do thine office, Friar gray, 

And see thou shrive her free ? 
Else shall the sprite, that parts to-night, 

Fling all its guiH on thee. 

" Let mass be said, and trentals read. 
When thou'rt to convent gone, 

And bid the bell of St. Benedict 
Toll out its deepest tone." 

The shrift is done, the Friar is gon^^ 
Blindfolded as he came — ' 



2l8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



N3::t morninf, all in Littlecot HalP^ 
Were weeping for their dame. 

Wild Dnrrcl is ^ alter'd man, 

Thi village crones can tell ; 
H2 looks pale as clay, and strives to pray, 

If he hears the convent bell. 

If prince cr peer cross Darrell's way, 

He"ii beard him in his pride — • 
If he meet a Friar cf orders gray, 

He droops and tarns aside. 

XXVIII. 

" Harper ! methinks thy magic lays,** 

Matilda said, " can goblins raise J 

Wellnigh my fancy can discern, 

Near the dark porch, a visage stern ; 

E'en now, in yonder shadowy nook, 

I see it ! — Redmond, Wilfrid, look !— 

A human form distinct and clear — 

God for thy mercy I — It draw? near ! " 

She saw too true. Stride alter stride, 

The centre of that chamber wide 

Fierce Bertram gain'd ; <"hen made a stand, 

And, proudly waving with his hand. 

Thunder'd— '* Be still, upon your»lives ! — 

He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives." 

Behind their chief, the robber crew 

Forth from the darken'd portal drew 

In silence — save that echo dread 

Return'd their heavy measured tread. 

The lamp's uncertain I'jstre gave 

Their arms to gleam, tiieir plumes to wave : 

File after file in order pass, 

Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass. 

Then, halting at their leader's sign, 

At once they form'd and curved their line, 

Hemming within its crescent drear 

Their victims like a herd of deer. 

Another sign, and to the aim 

Leveird at once their muskets came, 

As waiting but their chieftain's word, 

To make their fatal volley heard. 

XXIX. 

Back in a heap the menials drew; 
Yet, even in mortal terror, true, 
Their pale and startled group oppose 
Between Matilda and the foes. 
*' O, haste thee, Wilfrid ! " Redmond cried ; 
" Undo that wicket by thy side ! 
Bear hence Matilda — gam the wood— 
The pass may be a while made good — 
Thy band, ere this, must sure be nigh — 
O speak not — dally not — but fly ! " 
While yet the crowd their motions hide, 
Through the low wicket door they glide. 



Through vaulted passages they wind, 

In Gothic intricacy twined ; 

Wilfrid half led, and half he bore, 

Matilda to the postern-door. 

And saie Dentath the forest tree, 

The Lady stands at liberty. 

The moonbeams, the fresh gale's caresaj. 

Renewed suspended ccnsciousness ;— 

" Where's Redmcnd .? " eagerly she cries j 

" Thou ans'.ver'st not- -he dies ! he dies \ 

And thou hast left him, all bereft 

Of mortal aid— with murderers left I 

I know it well — he would not yield 

His sword to man — his doom is seal'd ! 

For my scorn'd life, which thou hast bought 

At price of his, I thank thee not.". 

XXX. 
The unjust reproach, the angry look, 
The heart of Wilfrid could not brook, 
" Lady," he said, " my band is near, 
In safety thou mayst rest thee here. 
For Redmond's death thou shalt not 

mourn, 
If mine can buy his safe return.'* 
He turn'd away — hi;: heart throbb'd high, 
The tear was bursting from his eye ; 
The sense of her injustice press'd 
Upon the Iklaid's distracted breast, — 
" Stay, Wilfiid, stay ! all aid is vain 1 " 
He heard, bat turn'd him not again j 
He reaches new the postern-door, 
Now enters — and is seen no more. 

XXXI. 

With all the agony that e'er 
Was gender xl 'twixt suspense and fear. 
She watch'd the line of windows tall, 
Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall, 
Distinguish'd by the paly red 
The lamps in dim reflection shed, 
While all beside in wan moonligl^.t 
Each grated casement glimmer' d white, 
rio sight of harm, no sound of ill, 
It is a deep and midnight still. 
Who look'd upon the scene had guess'd 
All in the Castle were at rest: 
When sudden on the window shone 
A. lightning flash, just seen and gone ! |' 
A shot is heard — Again the flame 
Finsh'd thick and fast— a volley camel 
Then echo'd wildly, from within, 
Of shout and scream the mingled din, 
And weapon-crash and maddening cry, 
Of those who kill, and those who die !-=- 
As fill'd the Hall with sulphurous smoke, 
More red, more dark, the death-flash 
broke ; 



ROKEBY, 



219* 



And lorms were on the lattice cast, 
That struck, or struggled, as they past. 

XXXII. 

What sounds upon the midnight wind 
Approach so rapidlj' behind ? 
It is, it is, the tramp of steeds, 
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds, 
Seizes upon the leader's rein — 
■* O, haste to aid, ere aid be vain ! 
JFly to the postern — gain the Hall ! " 
From saddle spring the troopers all ; 
Their gallant steeds, at liberty, 
Run wild along the moonlight lea, 
But, ere they burst upon the scene. 
Full stubborn had the conflict been. 
When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight, 
It gave the signal for the fight ; 
And Rokeby's veterans, seem'cl with scars 
Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars, 
Their momentary panic o'er, 
Stood to the arms which then they bore 
(Per they were weapon'd, and prepared 
Their mistress on her way to guard.) 
Then cheer'd them to the fight of O'Ncale, 
Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the steel ; 
The war-smoke soon with sable breath 
Darken'd the scene of blood and death, 
While on the few defenders close 
The Bandits, with redoubled blows. 
And, twice driven back, yet fierce and fell 
Renew the charge v/ith frantic yell. 

XXXIII. 
Wilfrid has fall'n — but o'er him stood 
Young Redmond, sojl'd with smoke and 

blood, 
Cheering his mates with heart and hand 
Still to make good their desperate stand. 
" Up, comrades, up ! In Rokeby halls 
Ne'er be it said our courage falls. 
What ! faint ye for their savage cry. 
Or do the sm.oke-wreaths daunt your eye ? 
These rafters have return 'd a shout 
As loud as Rokeby's wassail rout. 
As thick a smoke these hearths have given 
At Hallow-tide or Christmas-even. ^^ 
Stand to it yet ! renew the fight. 
For Rokeby's and Matilda's right ! 
These slaves I they dare not, hand to hand, 
Bide buffet from a true man's brand." 
Impetuous, active, fierce, and young, 
Upon the advancing foe« ^^ -p— "s- 
Woe to tha wretf^i-" ^« whom is bent 
His brandish'd falchion's sheer descent I 
Backward they scatter'd as he came, 
Like wolves before the levin flame, 



When, 'mid their howling conclave driven, 
^lath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven, 
^Bertram rush'd on — but Harpool clasp'd 
His knees, although in death he gasp'd. 
His falling corpse before him flung, 
And round the trammell'd ruffian clung. 
Just then, the soldiers fiU'd the dome. 
And, shouting, charged the felons home 
So fiercely, that, in panic dread, 
They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled. 
Bertram's stern voice they heed no mor^ 
Though heard above the battle's roar ; 
While, trampling down the dying man, 
He strove, with volley'd threat and ban,i 
In scorn of odds, in fate's despite, 
To rally up the desperate fight. 

XXXIV. 

Soon murkier clouds the Hall enfold 
Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd', 
So dense, the combatants scarce know 
To aim or to avoid the blow. 
Smothering and blindfold grows the fight- 
But soon shall dawn a dismal light ! 
'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there cama 
The hollow sound of rushing flame ; 
New horrors on the tumult dire 
Arise — the Castle is on fire ! 
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand, 
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand. 
Matilda saw — for frequent broke 
From the dim casements gusts of smoke. 
Yon tower, which late so clear defined 
On the fair hemisphere reclined, 
That, pencill'd on its azure pure. 
The eye could count each embrazure. 
Now, swathed within the sweeping cloudj 
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud ; 
Till, from each loop-hole flashing light, 
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright, 
And, gathering to united glare. 
Streams high into the midnight air ; 
A dismal beacon, far and wide 
That waken'd Greta's slumbering side. 
Soon all beneath, through gallery long, , 
And pendant arch the fire flash'd stron^\ 
Snatching whatever could maintain. 
Raise, or extend, its furious reign ; 
Startling, with closer cause of dread, 
The females who the confli^fJJ^-^la^^ 



And now rij 



with tlamors vain. 



TCXXV. 

But ceased not yet, the Hall within, 
^ The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din. 



220 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORIC:^ 



Till bursting lattices give proof 

The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. 

jWhat I wait they till its beams amain 

Crash on the slayers and the slain ? 

The alarm is caught — the drawbridge falls, 

The warriors hurry from the walls, 

But, by the conflagration's light, 

Upon the lav/n renew the fight. 

Each struggling felon down v/as hew'd, 

Not one could gain the sheltering wood ; 

But forth the affrighted harper sprung, 

And to Matilda's robe he clung. 

Her shriek, entreaty, and command, 

Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. 

Denzil and he alive were ta'en ; 

The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. 

XXXVI. 

And where is Bertram ? — Soaring high 
The general flame ascends the sky ; 
In gather'd group the soldiers gaze 
Upon the broad and roaring blaze, 
When, like infernal demon, sent, 
Red from his penal element, 
To plague and to pollute the air,— 
His face all gore, on Are his hair. 
Forth from the central mass of smoke 
The giant form of Bertram bioke 1 
His brandish'd sword on high he rears, 
Then plunged among opposing spears ; 
Round his left arm his mantle truss'd. 
Received and foil'd three lances' thrust ; 
Nor these his headlong course v/ithstood. 
Like reeds he snapped the tough ash-wood. 
In vain his foes cround him clung ; 
With matchless force aside he flung 
Their boldest, — as the bull, at bay, 
Tosses the ban-clogs from his way, 
Through forty foes his path he made, 
And safely gain'd the forest glade. 

XXXVII. 

Scarce was this final conflict o'er, 
When from the postern Redmond bore 
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, 
,Had in the fatal Hall been lett, 
Deserted there by all his train : 
But Redmond sav/, and turn'd again.— 
Beneath an oak, he laid him down, 
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown, 
And then his mantle's clasp undid j 
Tili; given'tVbPe'il'fiePJPS head, _ 
Returning life repaid t'neir care?""" 
He gazed on them v/ith heavy siTh,— 
" I could have v/ish'd even thus to die ! " 
No more he said— for now with speed ' 
Each trooper had regain'd his steed ; 



The ready palfreys stood array'd. 
For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maidj) 
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, 
One leads his charger by the rein 
But oft Matilda look'd behind. 
As up the Vale of Tees they wind, 
Where far the mansion of her sires 
Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires. 
In gloomy arch above them j;pread. 
The clouded heaven lov/er'd bloody red % 
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
Appear'd to roll in waves of blood. 
Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
The tov/cr, the donjon-keep, the hall. 
Each rushing down with thunder sounds 
A space the conflagration drown'd ; 
Till, gathering strength, again it rose, 
Announced its triumph in its close. 
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er,' 
Then sunk — and Rokeby was no more !' 



CANTO SIXTH.^ 



The summer sun whose early power 
Was wont to gild Matilda's bower. 
And rouse her with his matin ray 
Her duteous orisons to pay. 
That morning sun had three times seen 
The flowers imfold on Rokeby green, 
But sees no more the slumbers fly 
From fair Matilda's hazel eye ; 
That morning sun has three times broke 
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak, 
But, rising from their sylvan screen, 
Marks no gray turrets glance between, x 
A shapeless mass lie keep and tower, 
That, hissing to the morning shower, 
Can but with smouldering vapor pay ; 
The early smile of summer day. 
The peasant, to his labor bound. 
Pauses to view the blacken'd mound,' 
Striving, amid the ruin'd space. 
Each well-remem.ber'd spoit to trace. 
That length of frail and iirc-scorch'd v/all) 
Once screen'd the hospitable hall ; 
When yonder broken arch was wliole, 
'Twas there was dealt the weekly dclej) 
And vvfhere yon tottering columns nod^ 
e" ^">,-"J"'V'^^ <;(-nt the hymn to God. — 

So flits the world's Untortair, ..pan I 

Nor zeal for God, nor love for man, 
Gives mortal monuments a date 
Beyond the power of Time and Fata, 



ROKEBY. 



221 



The towers must share the builder's doom ; 
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb : 
But better boon benignant Heaven 
To Faith and Charity has given, 
And bids the Christian hope sublime 
Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time. 

II. 

Now the third night of summer came, 

Since that which witness'd Rokeby's flame. 

On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake 

The owlet's homilies awake, 

The bittern scream'd from rush and flag, 

The raven slumber'd on his crag, 

Forth from his den the otter drew, — 

Grayling and trout their tyrant knew, 

As between reed and sedge he peers, 

With fierce round snout and sharpen'd ears, 

Or prowling by the moonbeam cool. 

Watches tlie stream or swims tlie pool , — 

Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high, 

Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied eye, 

That all the day had watch'd so well 

The cushat dart across the dell. 

In dubious beam reflected shone 

That lofty cliff of pale gray stone, 

Beside whose base the secret cave 

To rapine late a refuge gave. 

The crag's wild crest of copse and yew 

On Greta's breast dark shadows threw ; 

Shadows that met or shunn'd the sight, 

With every change of fitful light ; 

As hope and fear alternate chase 

Our course through life's uncertain race. 



Gliding by crag and copsewood green, 
A solitary form was seen 
To trace with stealthy pp.ce the wold, 
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold, 
And pauses oft, and cowers dismay'd, 
At every breath that stirs the shade. 
He passes now the ivy bush, — 
The owl has seen him, and is hush ; 
■lie passes now the dodder'd oak, — 
lie heard the startled raven croak; 
Lower and lower lie descends. 
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends ; 
The otter hears him tread the shore, 
And dives, and is beheld no more ; 
And by the cliff of pale gray stone 
The midnight wanderer stands alone. 
Methinks that by the moon we trace 
A^well-remember'd form and face ! 
That stripling shape, that cheek so pale, 
Corabine to tell a rueful tale, 



Of powers misused, of passion's force, 
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse I 
'Tis Edmund's eye, at every sound 
That flings that guilty glance around ; 
'Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides 
The brushwood that the cavern hides ; 
And, when its narrow porch lies bare, 
'Tis Edmund's form that enters there. 



His flint and steel have sparkled bright, 
A lamp hath lent the cavern hght. 
Fearful and quick his eye surveys 
Each angle of tlie gloomy maze. 
Since last he left that stern abode, 
It seem'd as none its floor had trcde ; 
Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil, 
The purcliase of his comrades' tod ; 
Masks and disguises grim'd with mud. 
Arms broken and defiled with blood, 
And all the nameless tools that aid 
Night-felons in their lawless trade. 
Upon the gloomy walls were hung, 
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung. 
Still on the sordid board appear 
The relics of the noontide cheer ; 
Flagons and emptied flasks were there, 
And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd chair; 
And all around the semblance show'd. 
As when the final revel glow'd. 
When the red sun was setting fast, 
And parting pledge Guy Denzil past. 
" To Rokeby treasure-vaults ! " they 

quaff'd. 
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd, 
Pour'd maddening from the rocky door. 
And parted — to return no more ! 
They found in Rokeby vaults their 

doom, — ■ 
A bloody death, a burning tomb ! 



There his own peasant dress he spies, 
Doff'd to assume that quaint disguise ; 
And, shuddering, thought upon his glee. 
When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy. 
" O, be the fatal art accurst," 
He cried, " that moved my folly first ; 
Till, bribed by bandit's base applause, 
I burst through God's and Nature's laws ! 
Three summer days are scantly past 
Since I have trod this cavern last, 
A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err- 
But, O, as yet no murderer ! 
Even now I list my comrades' cheer, 
That general laugh is in mine ear, 



233 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Which raised my pulse and steel'd my 

heart, 
As I rehearsed my treacherous part — 
And would that all since then could seem 
The phantom of a fever's dream ! 
But fatal Memory notes too well 
The horrors of the dying yell 
From my despairing mates that broke, 
When fiash'd the fire and roli'd the smoke ; 
When the avengers shouting came, 
And hemm'd us 'twixt the sword and 

flame! 
My frantic flight, — the lifted brand, — 

That angel's interposing hand ? 

If, for my life from slaughter freed, 
I yet could pay soms grateful meed ! 
Perchance this object of my quest 
May aid " — he turn'd, nor spoke the rest. 



VI. 

Due northward from the rugged hearth, 
With paces five he metes the earth. 
Then toil'd with mattock to explore 
The entrails of the cabin iloor, 
Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground. 
His search a small steel casket found. 

iust as he stoop'd to loose its hasp, 
lis shoulder felt a giant grasp ; 
He started, and look'd up aghast. 
Then shriek'd ! — 'Twas Bertram held him 

fast. 
"Fear not ! " he said ; but who could hear 
That deep stern voice, and cease to fear. 
" Fear not ! — By Heaven, he shakes as 

much 
As partridge in the falcon's clutch : " — 
He raised him, and unloosed his hold, 
While from the opening casket roli'd 
A cham and reliquaire of gold. 
Bertram beheld it with surprise, 
Gazed on its fasliion and device, 
Then, cheering Edmund as he could, 
Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged mood : 
For still the youth's half-lifted eye 
Quiver'd with terror's agony, • 
And sidelong glanced, as to explore, 
In meditated flight, the door. 
" Sit," Bertram said, " from danger free: 
Thou canst not, and thou shalt not, flee. 
Chance brings me hither ; hill and plain 
I've sought for refuge-place in vain. 
And tell me now, thou aguish boy,^ 
What makest thou here.? what means 

this toy } 
t)enzil and thou, I mark'd, v;ere ta'en ; 
^kat lucky chance unbound your chain ? 



I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tower, 
Your heads were warp'd with sun and 

shower. 
Tell me the whole — and, mark ! nought e.'er 
Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear." 
Gathermg his courage to his aid, 
But trembling still, the youth cbey'd. 

VII. 

" Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er 

In fetters on the dungeon floor. 

A guest the third sad morrow brought : 

Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought^ 

And eyed my comrade long askance, 

With fix'd and penetrating glance. 

'Guy Denzil art thou call'd? ' — ' The 

same.' — 
' At Court who served wild Buckinghame ; 
Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place, 
So Villiers will'd, in Marwood-chase ; 
That lost — I need not tell thee why — 
Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply. 
Then fought for Rokeby : — Have I guess'd 
My prisoner right ? ' — ' At thy behest.' — 
He paused a while, and then went on 
With low and confidential tone ; — 
Me, as I judge, not then he saw, 
Close nestled in my couch of straw, — 
' List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great 
Have frequent need of what they hate ; 
Hence, in their favor oft we see. 
Unscrupled, useful men like thee. 
Were I disposed to bid thee live. 
What pledge of faith hast thou to give ? 



" The ready Fiend, who never yet 
Hath failed to sharpen Dcnzil's wit, 
Prompted his lie — ' His only child 
Should rest his pledge.' — The BaroD 

smiled, 
And turn'd to me — ' Thou art his son? ' 
I bow'd — our fetters were undone, 
And we were led to hear apart 
A dreadful lesson of his art. 
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son, 
Had fair Matilda's favor won ; 
And long since had their union been, 
But for her father's bigot spleen, 
Whose brute and blindfold party-rage 
Would, force per force, her hand engage 
To a base kern of Irish earth, 
Unknown his lineage and his birth, 
Save that a dying ruffian bore 
The infant brat to Rokeby door. 
Gentle restraint, he said, would lead 
Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed j 



ROKEBY. 



223 



But fair occasion he must find 
For such restraint well-meant and kind, 
The Knight being render'd to his charge 
But as a prisoner at large. 



" He school' d us in a well-forged tale, 

Of scheme the Castle walls to scale, 

To which was leagued each Cavalier 

That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear ; 

That Rokeby, his parole forgot, 

Had dealt with us to aid the plot. 

Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal 

Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale 

Proffer'd as witness, to make good. 

Even though the forfeit were their blood. 

I scrupled, until o'er and o'er 

His prisoners' safety Wycliffe swore ; 

And then — alas ! what needs there more? 

I knew I should not live to say 

The proffer I refused that day ; 

Ashamed to live, yet loth to die, 

I soil'd me with their infamy ! " 

" Foor youth," said Bertram, "wavering 

still. 
Unfit alike for goo-d or ill ! 
But what fell next ? " — " Soon as at large 
Was scroll'd and sign'd our fatal charge, 
There never yet, on tragic stage. 
Was seen so well a painted rage 
As Oswald's show'd ! With loud alarm 
He call'd his garrison to arm ; 
From tower to tower, from post to post, 
He hurried as if all were lost ; 
Consign'd to dungeon and to (riiain 
The good old Knight and all his train ; 
Warn'd each suspected CavaUer, 
Within his Umits, to appear 
To-morrow, at the hour of noon, 
In the high church at Egliston:"— 



" Of Egliston ! — Even now I pass'd," 

Said Bertram, " as the night-closed fast ; 

Torches and cressets gleam'd around, 

'I heard the saw and hammer sound, 

And I could mark they to'il'd to raise 

A scaffold, hung with sable baize. 

Which the grim headsman's scene dis- 

play'd. 
Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid, 
Some evil deed will there be done, 
Unless Matilda wed his son ;— 
She loves him not — 'tis shrewdly guess'd 
That Redmond rules the damsel's breast. 
This is a turn of Oswald's skill ; 
But I may meet, and foil him still ; 



How earnest thou to thy freedom?" — 

'• There 
Lies mystery more dark and rare. 
In midst of Wy'chffe's well-feign'd rage, 
A scroll was offer'd by a page. 
Who told, a muifled horseman late 
Had left it at the Castle-gate. 
He broke the seal — his cheek show'd 

change. 
Sudden, portentous, wild and strange; 
The mimic passion of his eye 
Was turn'd to actual agony ; 
His hand like summer sapling shook. 
Terror and guilt were in his look. 
Denzil he judged, in time of need, 
Fit counsellor for evil deed ; 
And thus apart his counsel broke, 
While with a ghastly smile he spoke : — 



" ' As m the pageants of the stage, 

The dead awake in this wild age, 

Mortham — whom all men deem'd decreed 

In his own deadly snare to bleed, 

Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea. 

He train'd to aid in murdering me, — 

Mortham has 'scaped ! The coward shot 

The steed, but harm'd the rider not.' " 

Here, with an execration fell, 

Bertram leap'd up, and paced the cell :— 

" Thine own gray head, or bosom dark," 

He mutter' d, " may be surer mark ! " 

Then sat, and sign'd to Edmund, pale 

With terror, to resume his tale, 

" Wycliffe went on : — ' Mark with what 

flights 
Of wilder'd reverie he writes : — 

THE LETTER. 

'' ' Ruler of Mortham's destiny ! 

Though dead, thy victim lives to thee. 

Once had he all that binds to life, 

A lovely child, a lovelier wife ; 

Wealth, fame, and friendship, were his own* •- 

Thou gavest the word, and they are flown 

Mark how he pays thee : — To thy hand 

He yields his honors and his land. 

One boon premised ;— Restore his child \ 

And, from his native land exiled, 

Mortham no more returns to claim 

His lands, his honors, or his name; 

Refuse him this, and from the slain 

Thou shalt see Mortham rise again.'— 

XII. 
" This billet while the Baron read, 
HiS faltering accents show'd his dread. 



924 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Hl' press'd his forehead witli his palm, 
Then tool: a scornful tone and cahn ; 
' Wild as the winds, as billows wild I 
What wot 1 of his spouse or child ? 
Hither he brought a joyous dame, 
Unknown her lineage or her name : 
Her, in some frantic fit, he slew ; 
The nurse and child in fear withdrew. 
Heaven be my witness ! wist I where 
To find this youth, my kinsman's heir,— 
Unguerdon'd, I would give with joy 
The father's arms to fold his boy, 
And Mortham's lands and towers resign 
To the just heirs of Mortham's line.' — 
Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his fear 
Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer ; — 
' Then happy is thy vassal's part,' 
He said, ' to ease his patron's heart ! 
In thine own jailer's watchful care 
Lies Mortham's just and rightful heir ; 
Thy generous wish is fully won, — 
Redmond O'Nealeis Mortham's son.' 



'*. Up starting with a frenzied look, 

His clenched hand the Baron shook : 

' Is Hell at work ? or dost thou rave, 

Or darest thou palter with me, slave ? 

Perchance thou wot'st not, Barnard's towers 

Have racks, of strange and ghastly powers.' 

Denzil, who well his safety knew, 

Firmly rejoin'd, ' I tell thee true. 

Thy racks could give thee but to know 

The proofs, which I, untortured, show. — 

It chanced upon a winter niglit, 

Wiien early snow made Stanmore white, 

That very night, when first Ox all 

Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby hall, 

It was my goodly lot to gain 

A reliquary and a chain. 

Twisted and chased of massive gold. 

r— Demand not how the prize I hold ! 

It was not given, nor lent, nor sold. — 

Gilt tablets to the chain were hung, 

With letters in the Irish tongue. 

I hid my spoil, for there was need 

That I should leave the land with speed ; 

Nor then I deeni'd it safe to bear 

On mine own person gems so rare. 

Small heed I of the tablets took, 

But since have spell 'd them by the book. 

When some sojourn in Erin's land 

Of their wild speech had given command. 

But darkling was the sense ; the phrase 

And language those of other days, 



Involved of purpose, as to foil 

An interloper's prying toil. 

The words, but not the sense, I knew, 

Till fortune gave the guiding clue. 



" * Three days since, was that clue reveard. 

In Thorsgill as I lay conceal'd, 

And heard at full when Rokeby's Maid 

Her uncle's history display'd ; 

And now I can interpret well 

Each syllable the tablets tell. 

Mark, then : Fair Edith was the joy 

Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy ; 

But from her sire and country fled, 

In secret Mortham's Lord to wed. 

O'Neale his first resentment o'er, 

Despatched his son to Greta's shore, 

Enjoming he should make him known 

(Until his farther will were shown) 

To Edith, but to her alone. 

What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell, 

Lord Wycliffe knows, and none so well. 

XV. 

" O'Neale it was, who, in despair, 
Robb'd Mortham of his infant heir ; 
He bred him in their nurture wild. 
And call'd him murder'd Connel's child. 
Soon died the nurse ; the Clan believed 
What from their Chieftain they received^ 
His purpose was, that ne'er again ^ 
The boy should cross the Irish main ; 
But, like his mountain sires, enjoy 
The woods and wastes of Clandeboy. 
Then on the land wild troubles came, 
And stronger Chieftains urged a claim, 
And wrested from the old man's hands 
His native towers, his father's lands. 
Unable then, amid the strife. 
To guard yoUug Redmond's rights or life, 
Late and reluctant he restores 
The infant to his native shores. 
With goodly gifts and letters stored, 
With many a deep conjuring word, 
To Mortham and to Rokeby's Lord. 
Nought knew the clod of Irish earth. 
Who was the guide, of -Redmond's birth , _ 
But deem'd his Chief s commands were kkj 
On both, by both to be obey'd. 
How he was wounded by the way, 
I need not, and 1 list not say.' — 

XVI. 

" ' A wondrous talc ! and, grant it true, 
What,' Wycliffe answer'd, ' might I do ? 
Heaven knows, as willingly as now 
I raise the bonnet from my brow, 



ROKEBY. 



Would I my kinsman's manors fair 
Restore to Mortham, or his heir ; 
But Mortham is distraught— O'Neale 
Has drawn for tyranny his steel, 
Malignant to our rightful cause, 
And train'd in Rome's delusive laws. 
Hark thee apart ! '—They whisper'd long, 
Till Denzil's voice grew bold and strong ;— 
' My proofs ! I never will,' he said, 
= Show mortal man where they are laid. 
Noi- hope discovery to foreclose, 
By giving me to feed the crows ; 
For I have mates at large, who know 
Where I am wont such toys to stow. 
^ree me from peril and from band. 
These tablets are at thy command : 
Nor were it hard to form some train. 
To wile old Mortham o'er the main. 
Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand 
Should wrest from thine the goodly land.'- 
— ' I like thy wit,' said Wycliffe, 'well; 
But here in hostage shalt thou dwell. 
Thy-son, unless my purpose err. 
May prove the trustier messenger. 
A scroll to Mortham shall he bear 
From me, and fetch these tokens rare. 
Gold shalt thou have, and that good store, 
And freedom, his commission o'er ; 
But if his faith should chance to fail. 
The gibbet frees thee from the jail.'— 

XVII. 

" Mesh'd in the net himself had twined, 
What subterfuge could Denzil find? 
He told me, with reluctant sigh. 
That hidden here the tokens lie ; 
Conjured my swift return and aid, 
By all he scoff'd and disobey'd, 
And look'd as if the noose were tied, 
And I the priest who left his side. 
This scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave, 
Whom I must seek by Greta's wave ; 
Or in the hut where chief he hides, 
I Where Thorsgill's forester resides. 
I (Then chanced it, wandering in the glade, 
j That h; descried cur ambuscade.) 
! ( was disnuss'd as evening fell, 
I And reach'd but now this rocky cell." — 
j " Give Oswald's letter." — Bertram read, 
1 And tore it fiercely shred by shred : — 
I " All lies and villany ! to blind 
|; I'lis noble kinsman's generous fliind, 
j And train him on from day to day, 
Till he can take his life away. — ' 
And now, declare thy purpose, youth, 
Nor dare to answer, save the truth ; 



If aught I mark of Denzil's art, 

I'll tear the secret from thy heart ! " — 

XVIII. 

" It needs not. I renounce," he said, 

'• My tutor and his deadly trade. 

Fix'd was my purpose to declare 

To Mortham, Redmcnd is his heir ; 

To tell him in what risk he stands, 

And yield these tokens to his hands. 

Fix'd was my purpose to atone, 

Far as I may, the evil done ; 

And fix'd it rests— if I survive 

This night, and leave this cave alive." 

" And Denzil ? " — " Let them ply the rack 

Even till his joints and sinews crack ! 

If Oswald tear him limb from limb,_ 

What ruth can Denzil claim from him, 

Whose thoughtless youth he led astray. 

And damn'd to this unhallow'd way ? 

He school' d me faith and vows were vain ; 

Now let my master reap his gain." — 

" True," answer'd Bertram, " 'tis his meedr 

There's retribution in the deed. 

But thou— thou art not for cur course, 

Hast fear, hast pity, hast remorse : 

And he with us the gale who braves. 

Must heave such cargc to the waves, 

Or lag with overloaded prore, 

While barks unburden d reach the shore." 



He paused, and, stretching him at length, 
Seem'd to repose his bulky strength. 
Communing with his secret mind, 
As half he sat, and half reclined. 
One ample hand his forehead press'd, 
And one was dropp'd across his breast. 
The shaggy eyebrows deeper came 
Above his eyes of swarthv flame ; 
His lip of pride a while forbcre 
The haughty curve till then it wore ; 
The unaiter'd fierceness c.f his look 
A shade of darken'd sadness took,— 
For dark and sad a presage press'd, 
Resistlessly on Bertram's breast, — 
And when he spcke, h'.s wonted tone, 
So fierce, abrupt, and brief was gone. 
His voice was steady, lew, and deep, 
Like distant waves, when breer^rs sleep; 
And sorrow mix'd with Edmund's fear, 
Its low unbroken depth to hear. 

XX 

" Edmund, in thy sad tale I find 
The woe that warp'd iny patron's mind. 
'Twould wake the fountains of the eye 
In other men, but mine are dry 



326 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Mortham must never see the fool, 
That sold himself base Wycliffe's tool ; 
Yet less from tliirst of sordid ,c,ain, 
Than to avenge supposed disdain. 
Say, Bertram rues liis fault ; — a word, 
Till nov/, from Dertram never heard : 
Say, too, that Mortliam's Lord he prays 
To think but on their former days ; 
On Quariana's beach and rock. 
On Cayo's bursting battle-shock. 
On Darien's sands and deadly dew. 
And on tht dart Tlatzeca threw ; — 
Perchance my patron yet may hear 
More that may grace his comrade's bier. 
My soul hath felt a secret weight, 
A warning of approaching fate ; 
As priest had said, ' Return, repent I ' 
As well to bid that rock be rent. 
Firm as that flint I face mine end ; 
My heart may burst, but cannot bend, 

XXI. 

" The dawaiing of my youth, with awe 
And prophecy, the Dalesmen saw ; 
For over Redesdale it came, 
As bodeful as their heacon-flame. 
Edmund, thy years were scarcely mine, 
When, challenging the Clans of Tyne, 
To bring their best my brand to prove, 
O'er Hexham's altar hung my glove ;^s 
But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town, 
Held champion meet to take it down. 
My noontide, India may declare ; 
Like her fierce sun, I fired the air ! 
Like him, to wood and cave bade fly 
Her natives, from mine angry eye. 
Panama's maids shall long look pale 
When Risingham inspires the tale ; 
Chili's dark matrons long shall tame 
The froward child with Bertram's name. 
And now, my race of terror run. 
Mine be the eve of tropic sun ! 
No pale gradations quench his ray, 
No twilight dews his wrath allay ; 
With disk like battle-target red, 
He rushes to his burning bed. 
Dyes the wide wave with bloody light, 
Then sinks at once — and all is night. — 



" Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly, 
Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie 
To Richmond, where his troops are laid, 
And lead his force to Redmond's aid. 
Say, till he reaches Egliston, 
A friend will watch to guard his son. 
Now, f?ire-thee-well ; for night draws on 
And I Avould rest me here alone." 



Despite his ill-dissembled fear, 

There swam in Edmund's eye a tear; 

A tribute to the courage high, 

That stoop'd not in extremity, 

But strove, irregularly great, 

To triumph o'er approaching fate! 

Bertram beheld the dewdrop start, 

It almost touch'd his iron heart : — 

" I did not think there lived," he said, 

" One, who would tear for Bertram shed,' 

He loosen'd then his baldric's hold, 

A buckle broad of massive gold ; — 

" Of r.U the spoil that paid his pains, 

But this with Risingham remains ; 

And this, dear Edmund, thou shall take, 

And wear it long for Bertram's sako. 

Once more — to Mortham speed amain j 

Farewell ! and turn thee not again." 



The night has yielded to the morn, 
And far the hours of prime are worn. 
Oswald, who, since the dawn of day, 
Had cursed his messenger's delay, 
Impatient question'd now his train, 
" Was Denzil's son return'd again ?" 
It chanced there answer'd of the crew, 
A menial, whom young Edmund knew : 
" No son of Denzil this," — he said ; 
'• A peasant boy from Winston glade, 
For song and minstrelsy renown'd. 
And knavish pranks, the hamlets round."— 
" Not Denzil's son ! — From Winston 

vale ! — 
Then it was false, that specious tale : 
Or, worse — he hath despatch'd the youth 
To show to Mcrtham's Lord its truth. 
Fool that I v/as ! — but 'tis too late :— 
This is the very turn of fate I — 
The tale, or true or false, relies 
On DenziTs evidence ! — He dies ! 
Ho I Provost Marshal ! instantly 
Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree! 
Allow him not a parting word ; 
Short be the shrift, and" sure the cord! 
Then let his gory head appal 
Marauders from the Castle-wall. 
Lead forth thy guard, that duty done, 
With best despatch to Egliston. — / 
—Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight 
Attend me at the Castle-gate." 

XXIV. 

" Alas ! " the old domestic said, 

And shook his venerable head, 

<' Alas, my lord 1 full ill to-day • 



ROKEBY. 



227 



May my young master brook the way ! 
The leech has spoke with grave alarm, 
Of unseen hurt, of secret harm, 
Of sorrow lurking at the heart, 
That mars and lets his healing art.'"— 
" Tush, tell not me !— Romantic boys 
Pine themselves sick for airy toys, 
I will find cure for Wilfrid soon ; 
Bid Inm for Egliston be boune, 
And quick !— I hear the dull death-drum 
Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come." 
He paused with scornful smile, and then 
Resumed his train of thought agen. 
" Now comes my fortune's crisis near ! 
Entreaty boots not — instant fear, 
Nou2;ht else, can bend Matilda's pride, 
Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride. 
But when she sees the scaffold placed, 
With axe and bl(.ck and headsman graced, 
And when she deems, that to deny 
Dooms Redmond and her sire to die, 
She must give way. — Then, were the line 
Of Rokeby once combined with mine, 
I gain the weather-gage of fate ! 
If Mortham come, he comes too late, 
While I, allied thus and preparsd. 
Bid him defiance to his beard. — 
— If she prove stubborn, shall I dare 
To drop the a.\:e ! — Soft ! pause we there. 
Mortham still lives — yon youth may tell 
His tale — and Fairfax loves him well; — 
Else, wherefore should I now delay 
To sweep this Redmond from my way ? 
But she to piety perforce 
Must yield. — Without there 1 Sound to 
horse." 



'Twas bustle in the court below, — 

" Mount, and march forward I '' — Forth 

they go ; 
Steeds neigh and trample all around, 
Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets 

sound. — 
Just then was sung his parting hymn ; 
And Denzil turn"d his eyeballs dim. 
And, scarcely conscious what he sees. 
Follows the horsemen down the Tees ; 
And, scarcely conscious what he hears, 
The trumpets tingle in his ears. 
O'er the long bridge they're sweeping now, 
The van is hid by greenwood bough ; 
But ere the rearward had passed o'er, 
Guy Denzil heard and saw no more ! 
One stroke, upon the Castle bell. 
To Oswald rung his dying knell. 



XXVI. 

O, for that pencil, erst profuse 
Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues, 
That traced of old, in Woodstock bower, 
The pageant of the Eeaf and Flower, 
And bodied forth the tournev high. 
Held for the hand of Emily ! 
Then might I paint the tunuilt loud, 
That to the crowded abbey flow'd, 
And pour'd, as with r.n ocean's soimd, 
Into the church's amplj bound ! 
Then might 1 show each varying mien, 
Exulting, woeful, or serene ; 
Indifference, with his idiot stare, 
And Sympathy, with anxious air ; 
Paint the dejected Cavalier, 
Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer; 
And his proud foe, whose formal eye 
Claim'd conquest now and mastery ; 
And the brute crowd, whose envious zeat 
Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel, 
And loudest shouts when lowest lie 
Exalted worth and station high. 
Yet what may such a wish avail ? 
'Tis mine to tell an cnward tale, 
Hurrying, as best I can, along, 
The hearers and the hasty song ; — 
Like traveller when approaching home, 
Who sees the shades of evening come, 
And must not now his course delay, 
Or choose the fair, but winding way \ 
Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend, 
Where o'er his head the wildings bend, 
To bless the breeze that cools his brow^ 
Or snatch a blossom from the bough. 

XXVII. 

The reverend pile lay wild and waste, 

Profaned, dishonor'd, and defaced. 

Through storied lattices no more 

In soften'd light the sunbeams pour, 

Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich 

Of shrine, and monument, and niche. 

Tiie Civil fury of the time 

Made sport of sacrilegious crime ; 

For dark Fanaticism rent 

Altar, and screen, and ornament. 

And peasant hands the tombs, o'erthrcw 

Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh. 

And now was seen, unwonted sight. 

In holy walls a scaffold dight ; 

Where once the priest, of grace divine, 

Dealt to his flock the mystic sign, 

There stood the block display'd, and there 

The headsman grim his hatchet bare ; 

And for the word of Hope and Faith, 

Resounded loud a doom of death. 



228 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was 

heard, 
And echo'd thrice the herald's word, 
Dooming, for breach of martial laws, 
And treason to the Common's cause, 
The Knight of Rokeby and O'Neale" 
To stoop their heads to block and steel. 
The trumpets flourish'd high and shrill, 
Then was a silence dead and still ; 
And silent prayers to heaven were cast, 
And stifled sobs were bursting fast, 
Till from the crowd begun to rise 
Murmurs of sorrow or surprise. 
And from the distant aisles there came 
Deep-mutter'd threats, with Wycliffe's 

name. 



But Oswald, guarded by his band. 

Powerful in evil, waved his hand, 

And bade Sedition's voice be dead, 

On peril of the murmurer's head. 

Then first his glance sought Rokeby's 

Knight ; 
Who gazed on the tremendous sight, 
As calm as if he came a guest 
To kindred Baron's feudal feast, 
As calm as if that trumpet-call 
Were summons to the banner'd hall; 
Firm in his loyalty he stood, 
And prompt to seal it with his blood. 
With downcast look drew Oswald nigh, — . 
He durst not cope with Rokeby's eye ! 
And said, with low and faltering breath, 
" Thou know'st the terms of life and 

death." 
The Knight then turn'd, and sternly 

smiled ; 
'The maiden is mine only child. 
Yet shall my blessing leave her head. 
If with a traitor's son she wed." 
Then Redmond spoke : " The life of one 
Might thy malignity atone. 
On me be flung a double guilt ! 
Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be spilt ! " 
Wychffe had listen'd to his suit, 
But dread prevail'd, and he was mute. 

XXIX. 
And now he pours his choice of fear 
In secret on Matilda's ear ; 
" An union form'd with me and mine. 
Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line. 
Consent, and all this dread array. 
Like morning dream shall pass away ; » 
Refuse, and, by my duty press'd, 
I give the word — thou know'st the rest." 



Matilda, still and motionless, 

With terror heard the dread address, 

Pale as the sheeted maid who dies 

To hopeless love a sacrifice ; 

Then wrung her hands in agony, 

And round her cast bewilder'd eye. 

Now on the scaffold glanced, and now 

On Wycliffe's unrelenting brov.'. 

She veil'd her face, and, with a voice 

Scarce audible, — " I make my choice ! 

Spare but their lives ! — for, auglit beside. 

Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide. 

He once was generous ! " — As she -poke, 

Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke :— 

" Wilfrid, where loiter'd ye so late ? 

Why upon Basil rest thy weight ? — 

Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand?— 

Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand; 

Thank her with raptures, simple boy ! 

Should tears and trembling speak thj 

joy?"— 
" O hush, my sire ! To prayer and tear 
Of mine thou hast refused thine ear ; 
But now the awful hour draws on, 
When truth must speak in loftier tone." 



He took Matilda's hand : " Dear maid, 

Couldst thou so injure me," he said, 

" Of thy poor friend so basely deem. 

As blend with him this barbarous scheme ? 

Alas ! my efforts, made in vain. 

Might well have saved this added pain. 

But now, bear witness earth and heaven, 

That ne'er was Iiope to mortal given, 

So twisted with the strings of life, 

As this — to call Matilda wife ! 

I bid it now for ever part. 

And with the effort bursts my heart ! " 

His feeble frame was worn so low. 

With wounds, with watching, and with woe, 

That nature could no more sustain 

The agony of mental pain. 

He kneel'd — his lip her hand had press'd,— 

Just then he felt the stern arrest. 

Lower and lower sunk his head. — 

They raised him, — but the life was fled? 

Then, first alarm'd, his su-e and train 

Tried every aid, but tried in vain. 

The soul, too soft its ills to bear. 

Had left our mortal hemisphere. 

And sought in better world the meed, 

To blameless life by Heaven decreed. 

XXXI. 

The wretched sire beheld, aghasft, 
With Wilfrid all his projects past, 



ROKEBY. 



229 



All turn'd and centred on his son, 

On Wilfrid all — and he was gone. 

" And I am childless now," he said, 

" Childless, through that relentless maid 1 

A hfetime's arts, in vain essay'd, 

Are bursting on their artist's head ! 

Here lies my Wilfrid dead — and there 

Comes hated Mortham for his heir, 

Eager to knit in happy band 

With Rokeby's heiress Redmond's hand. 

And sliall their triumph soar o'er all 

The schemes deep-laid to work their fall ? 

No ! — deeds, which prudence might not 

dare, 
Appal not vengeance and despair. 
The murd'ress weeps upon his bier — 
I'll change to real that feigned tear ! 
They all shall share destruction's shock; — 
Ho ! lead the captives to the block 1 " 
But ill his Provost could divine 
His feelings, and forbore the sign. 
" Slave ! to the block ! — or I, or they. 
Shall face the judgment-seat this day I " 



The outmost crowd have heard a sound. 
Like horse's hoof on harden'd ground : 
Nearer it came, and yet more near,— 
The very death's-men paused to hear. 
'Tis in the church-yard now— the tread 
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! 
Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone, 
Return the tramp in varied tone. 
All eyes upon the gateway hung. 
When through the Gothic arch there 

sprung 
A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed — 
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. ^^ 
Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd, 
The vaults unwonted clang return'd !— 
One instant's glance around he threw, 
From saddlebow his pistol drew. 
Grimly determined was his look ! 
His charger with the spurs he strook — 
All scatter'd backward as he came, 
For all knew Bertram Risingham ! 
Three bounds that noble courser gave ; 
The first has reach'd the central nave, 
The second clear'd the chancel wide, 
The third — he was at Wycliffe's side. 
Full levell'd at the Baron's head. 
Rung the report — the bullet sped — 
And to his long account, and last, 
Without a groan dark Oswald past ! 
All was so quick that it might seem 
^ flash of lightning or a 4ream. 



XXXIII, 

While yet the smoke the deed conceals, 
Bertram his ready charger wheels ; ' 
But flounder'd on the pr.vement f.oor 
The steed, and down the rider bo:e, ; 
And, bursting in the headlong sway, 
The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 
' Twas while he toil'd him to be freed, 
And with the rein to raise the steed, 
That from amazement's iron trance 
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once. 
Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their blows 
Hail'd upon Bertram as he rose ; 
A score of pikes, with each a wound, 
Bore down and pinn'd him to the grotind ; 
But still his struggling force he rears, 
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing 

spears ; 
Thrice from assailants shook him free, 
Once gain'd his feet, and twice his knee. 
By tenfold odds oppress'd at length, 
Despite his struggles and his strength, 
He took a hundred mortal wounds, 
As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds ; 
And when he died, his parting groan 
Had more of laughter than of moan ! 
— They gazed, as when a lion dies. 
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes. 
But bend their weapons on the slain. 
Lest the grim king should rouse again ! 
Then blow and insult some renew'd, 
And from the trunk, the head had hew'd. 
But Basil's voice the deed forbade ; 
A mantle o'er the corse he laid : — 
" Fell as he was in act and mind, 
He left no bolder heart behind : 
Then give him, for a soldier meet, 
A soldier's cloak for winding-sheet." 

XXXIV. 
No more of death and dying pang, 
No more of trump and bugle clang. 
Though through the sounding woods there 

come 
Banner and bugle, trump and drum. 
Arm'd with such powers as well had freed 
Young Redmond at his utmost need, 
And back'd with such a band of horse, 
As might less ample powers enforce ; 
Possess'd of every proof and sign 
That gave an heir to Mortham's line, 
And yielded to a father''s arms 
An image of his Edith's charms, — 
Mortham is come, to hear and see 
Of this strange morn the history. 
What saw he ? — not the church's floor, 
Cumber'd with dead and stain'd with gorej 



230 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



What heard he ? — not the clamorous 

crowd, 
That shout their gratulations loud : 
Redmond he saw and heard alone, 
Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, " My son I my 

son ! " — 

XXXV. 

This chanced upon a summer morn, 
When yellow waved the heavy corn : 
But when brown August o'er the land 
Call'd forth the reaper's busy band, 
A gladsome sight the sylvan road 
From Egliston to Mortham show'd, 
A while the hardy rustic leaves 
The task to bind and pile the sheaves, 
And maids their sickles fling aside, 
To gaze on bridegroom and on bride, 



And cliildhood's wondering group draws 

near, 
And from the gleaner's hands the ear 
Drops, while she folds them for a prayer 
And blessing on the lovely pair, 
'Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave 
Her plighted troth to Redmond brave ; 
And Teesdale can remember yet 
How Fate to Virtue paid her debt, 
And, for their troubles, bade them prove 
A lengthen'd life of peace and love. 



Time and Tide had thus their sway, 
Yielding, like an April day, 
Smiling noon for sullen morrow. 
Years of joy for hours of sorrow I 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



THE VALE OF S T. J O H N. 

A LOVER'S TALE. 



PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 

In the Edinburgh Annual Register for the year 1S09, Three Fragments were inserted, 
written in imitation of Living Poets. It must have been apparent, that by these prolusions, 
nothing burlesque, or disrespectful to the autliors, was intended, but that they were offered to 
the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of composition, by 
which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises attracted a 
greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to complete one ol 
them, and present it as a separate publication. 

It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here 
adopted as his model, can, witii propriety, be introduced ; since his general acquiescence in the 
favorable suffrage of the public must necessarily be inferred from the attempt lie has now made. 
He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks on what has been called 
ROMANTIC poetry; the popularity of which has been revived in the present day, under the 
auspices, and by the unparalleled success, of one individual. 

The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, 
a mixture of both. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the features of pure 
romance ; but in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably derived tlieir chief value 
from their supposed historical authenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of 
all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song, do not exceed in 
number or ext/avagance the figments of the historians of the same period of society ; and, indeedc 
the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of late 
introduction. _ Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, Chroniclers, and so forth, 
are the first historians of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, 
or the traditions that have reached them ; and ihey clothe the relation in rhyme, merely as the 
means of rendering it more solemn in the narrative or more easily committed to memory. But 
as the poetical hiotorim improves in the art of conveying information, the authenticity of his 
narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon rlie events that are 
interesting to his imagination, and, consci^jus how indifferent his audience Is to the naked 
truth of his 1 oem, his liistory gradually 1 ecomes a romance. 

It is in tliis situation that those epics are found, wliich liave been generally regarded th« 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 23 ^ 

Etandards of poetry ; and it has happened somewhat strangely, that the modems have pointed 
out as ihe characteristics and peculiar excellencies of narrative poetry, the very circumstances 
which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of the historian as 
well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer selected the siege of Troy as the 
most appropriate subject for poetry ; his purpose was to write the early history of his country ; the 
even;; he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted 
for poetry, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical anecdotes extremely 
interesting to those who were to listen to him ; and this he has adorned by the exertions cf 
a genius, which, if it has been equalled, has certainly been never surpassed. It was not till com- 
paratively a late period that the general accuracy of his narrative, or his purpose in composing 
It, was brought into question. Ao/cei Trpdiro; [6" h.va^a^/ofia.';^ (KaOd c^tjo-i *a/3oprro? ef navToSaTrr) 
'laropia) rij^ "O/xrjpou ttoujo-ic a-0(j)rii'aa-6aL elvai. Trepl dp€T)j? /cai. Si/catocri.'i'r]?. But whatever! 
theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical! 
nature. EvavrtAAero jaera tov MeVrew /cat 6— ov eKacrTOTe a<piKOLTO, TTdiyTa rd emx^pia 
SiepcxJTOLTO Koi la-Topimi' envvOdveTO- ei/co? 6e ^iti/Tjv Kal ixvy]!J.o<jvvatTd.vTiav ypd(f)ecr6aL. Instead 
of recommending the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that 
critics should have exhorted the poets of these latter days to adopt or invent a narrative in itselic 
more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in ordfr to 
compensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has been inculcated 
by almost all the writers upon the Epopceia ; with what success, the fate of Homer's numerous 
imitators may best show. The rdtimii7n supplichim of criticism was inflicted on the author ii 
he did not choose a subject which at once deprived him of all claim to originality, and placed 
him, if not in actual contest, at least in fatal comparison, with those giants in the land whom it 
was most his interest to avoid. The celebrated receipt for writing an epic poem, which appeared 
in The Guardian, was the first instance in which common sense was applied to this department 
of poetry ; and, indeed, if the question be considered on its own merits, we must be sat-.sfied 
that narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived 
of the Individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite. 

Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects cf verse, more interest- 
ing in proportion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better 
than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason, a scene immediately pre- 
sented to the imagination, and directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate 
of but one or two persons, is more favorable for poetry than the political struggles and convul- 
sions which influence the fate of kingdoms. The former are within the reach and comprehension 
of all, and, if depicted with vigor, seldom fail to fix attention : The other, if more sublime, are 
more vague and distant, less capable of being distinctly understood, and infinitely less capable of 
exciting those sentiments v,-hich it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To generalize is 
always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of an individual 
soldier in combat, than in the grand event of a general action ; with the happiness of two lovers 
raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful exertions of a whole 
nation. From what causes this may originate, is a separate and obviously an immaterial con- 
sideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously selfish, it is 
propel to recollect, that while men see only a limited space, and while their affections and conduct 
are regulated, not by aspiring to an universal good, but by exerting their power of making them- 
selves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long will individual 
history and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road togerreral interest and atten- 
tion ; and, perhaps, we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as the more accessible, inas- 
much as it affords an example capable of being easily imitated. 

According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former 
comprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and combined at the pleasure of the writer; begin- 
iwng and ending as he may judge best: which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernatural 
machinery; which is free from the technical rules of the Epee ; and is subject only to those 
which good sense, good taste, and good morals, apply to every species of poetry without excen- 
tion. The date may be in a remote age, or in the present; the story may detail the adventures 
of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country and its inhab- 
itant?, and everything is permitted to him, excepting to be heavy or prosaic, for which, free 
and unembarrassed as he is, he has no manner cf apology. Those, it is probable, will be found 
the peculiarities of this species of composition ; and before joining the outcry against the vitiated 
taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be made perfectly 
apparent. If the want cf sieges, and battles, and great military evolTitions, in our poetry, is 
complained of, let us reflect, that the campaigns and neroes of our days are perpetuated in a 
record that neither requires nor admits of the aid of fiction ; and if the complaint refers to the 
mferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modestv, limiting them, as it docs, to 
subjects which, however indiflEerently treated, have still the interest and charm of novelty, and 
which thus preyents them from adding insipidity to their other more insuperable defects. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Come, Lucy! while 'tis morning hour, 

The woodland brook wc needs must pass : 
So, ere the sun assume his power, 
We shelter in our poplar bower, 
Where the dew lies long upon the flower. 
Though vanish' d from the velvet grass. 
Curbing the stream, this ston}' ridge 
May serve us for a sylvan bridge ; 
7or here compell'd to disunite, 

Round petty isles the runnels glide, 
And chafing off their puny spite,_ 
The shallow murmurs waste their might, 
. Yielding to footstep free ana light 
A dry-shod pass from side to side. 



Nay, why this hesitating pause ? 
And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws. 
Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim ? 

Titania's foot without a slip. 
Like thine, though timid, light, and slim, 

From stone to stone might safely trip, 

Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip 
That binds her slipper's silken rim. 
Or trust thy lover's strength : nor fear 

That this same stalwart arm of mine. 
Which could yon oak's prone trunk uprear. 
Shall shrink beneath the burden dear 

Of form so slender, light, and fine — 
So,— now, the danger dared at last, 
Look back, and smile at perils past I 



And now we reac'n the favorite glade, 

Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone, 
Where, never harsher sounds invade, 

To break affection's whispering tone, 
Than the deep breeze that waves the shade 

Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. 
Com; ! rest thee on thy wonted seat ; 

Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green, 
A place where lovers best may meet, 

Who would that not their love be seen 
The boughs, that dim the summer sky, 
Shall hide us from each lurking spy, 

232 



That fain would spread the invidbat 
tale. 
How Lucy of the lofty eye, 
Noble in birth, in fortunes high, 
She for whom lords and barons sigh, 

Meets her poor Arthur in the dale. 



How deep that blush ! — how deep fhat 

sigh ! 
And why does Lucy shun mine eye? 
Is it because that crimson draws 
Its color from some secret (!ause. 
Some hidden movement of the breast 
She would not that her Arthur guessd' 1 
O ! quicker far is lover's ken 
Than the dull glance of common men, 
And, by strange sympathy, can spell 
The thoughts the loved one v/ill net tell ? 
And mine, in Lucy's blush', saw met 
The hues of pleasure and regret ; 
Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, 

And shared with Love the crimson 
glow ; 
Well pleased that thou art Arthur's 
choice. 
Yet shamed thine own is placed so 
low : 
Thou turn'st thy self-confessmg cheek. 

As if to meet the breeze's cooling ; 
Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak 

For Love, too, has his houro nt .^chac!- 
ing. 



Too oft my anxious eye has spied 
That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide, 
The passing pang of humbled pride ; 
Too oft, when through the splendid haii. 

The load-star of each heart and eye, 
My fair one leads the glittering ball. 
Will her stci'n glance on Arthur fall 

With such a blush and such a sigh I 
Thou would'st not yield, for wealth of 
rank. 
The heart thy worth and beauty won. 
Nor leave me on this mossy bank, 
To meet a rival on a throne : 



ii 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAUV. 



233 



Why, then, should vain repinings rise, 

That to thy lover fate denies 

A nobler name, a wide domain, 

A Baron's birth, a menial train, 

Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part, 

A lyre, a falchion, and a hearth ? 

VI. 

My sword — its master must be dum.b ; 
But, when a soldier names my name, 
Approach, my Lucy I fearless come, 

Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame. 
My heart — 'mid all yon courtly crew, 

Of lordly rank and lofty line, 
Is there to love and honor true, 

That boasts a pulse so warm as mine ? 
They praised thy diamond's lustre rare — 
Match'd with thine eyes, I thought it 
faded ; 
They praised the pearls that bound thy 
hair — 
I only saw the locks they braided ; 
They talk of wealthy dower and land, 
And titles of high birth the token — 
I thought of Lucy's heart and hand, 

Nor knew the sense of what was spoken. 
And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll, 

I might have learn'd their choice unwise. 
Who rate the dov/er above the soul, 
And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. 

VII. 

My lyre — it is an idle toy, 

That borrows accents not its own. 

Like warbler of Columbian sky, 
That sings but in a mimic tone.* 

Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well, 

Nor boasts it aught of Border Spell ; 
Its strings no feudal slogan pour. 
Its heroes draw no broad claymore ; 
No shouting clans applauses raise, 
Because it sung their father's praise ; 
On Scotch moor, or English down, 
It ne'er was graced by fair renown ; 
Nor won, — best meed to minstrel true, — 
One favoring smile from fair Buc- 

CLEUCH ! 

By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, 
And heard by one dear maid alone. 



But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell 
Of errant knight, and damozelle ; 
Of the dread knot a Wizard tied. 
In punishment of maiden's pride. 



The Mocking Bird. 



In notes of marvel and of fear, 
That best may charm roniantic ear. 
For Lucy loves, — like Collins, ill-starr'd 

name! 
Whose lay's requital was that tardy fame, 
Who bound no laurel round his living head, 
Should hang it o'er his monument when 

dead, — 
For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand, 
And thread, like him, the maze of fairy land j 
Of golden battlements to view the gleam. 
And slumber soft by some Elysian stream ; 
Such lays she loves, — and, such my Lucy's 

choice. 
What other song can claim her Poet's voice? 



CANTO FIRST. 



Where is the Maiden of mortal strain. 
That may matcli with the Baron of Trien 

main .? ^ 
She must be lovely, and constant, and kind. 
Holy and pure, and humble of mind. 
Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood, 
Courteous, and generous, and noble oi 

blood — 
Lovely as the sun's first ray, 
When it breaks the clouds of an April day^ 
Constant and true as the widov/'d dove. 
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love ; 
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave. 
Where never sunbeam kiss'd the wavo ; 
Humble as maiden that loves in vain, ^ 
Holy as hermit's vesper strain ; 
Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies. 
Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in 

its sighs ; 
Courteous as monarch the morn he is 

crown 'd, 
Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad 

ground ; 
Noble her blood as the currents that met 
In the vains of the noblest Plantagenet— 
Such must her form be, her mood, and hei 

strain, 
That shall match with Sir Roland of 

Triermain. 

IL 
Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to 

sleep, 
His blood it was fever'd, his breathing wr 

deep. 



234 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORICS. 



He had been pricking against the Scot, 
The foray was long, and the skirmish hot ; 
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight 
Bore token of a stubborn fight. 

All in the castle must hold them still, 
Harpers must lull him to his rest, 
With the slow soft tunes he loves the best. 
Till sleep sink down upon his breast, 

Like the dew on a summer hill. 



It was the dawn of an autumn day ; 
The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray^ 
That like a silvery cape was spread 
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, 
And faintly gleam'd each painted pane 
Of the lordly hails of Triermainj 

When that Baron bold awoke. 
Starting he woke, and loudly did call, 
Rousing his menials in bower and hall, 

While hastily he spoke. 



" Hearken, my minstrels 1 Which of ye all 
Touch'd his harp with that dying fall, 

So sweet, so soft, so faint, 
It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call 

To an expiring saint ? 
.\nd hearken, my merry-men ! What time 
or where 

Did she pass, that maid with her heav- 
enly brow. 
With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, 
And her graceful step and her angel air. 
And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair, 

That pass'd from my bower e'en now .? " 

V. 

Answer'd him Richard de Bretville ; he 
Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy, — 
" Silent, noble chieftain, we 

Have sat since midnight close. 
When such lulhng sounds as the brooklet 

sings, 

Murmur'd from our melting strings. 

And hush'd you to repose. 

Had a harp-note sounded here. 

It had caught my watchful ear. 

Although it fell as faint and shy 

As bashful maiden's half-formM sigh. 

When she thinks her lover near."— 
Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall, 
He kept guard in the outer-hall, — 
*' Since at eve our watch took post, 
Not a foot has thy portal crossed ; 



Else had I heard the steps, though lovr 
And light they fell, as when earth receives, 
In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves. 

That drop when no winds blow." — 



" Then come thou hither, Henry my page, 
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, 
When that dark castle, tower, and spire, 
Rose to the skies a pile of fire, 

And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, 
And the shrieks of death that wildly broke 
Through devouring flame and smothering 
smoke. 

Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. 
The trustiest thou of all my train. 
My fleetest courser thou must jein. 

And ride to Lyulph's tower, 
And from the Baron of Triermain 

Greet well that sage of power. 
He is sprung from Druid sires, 
And British" bards that tuned their lyres ■ 
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise. 
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.* 
Gifted like his gifted race. 
He the characters can trace, 
Graven deep in elder time 
Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime ; 
Si'"T and sigil well doth he know, 
Ai. . can Dode of weal and woe. 
Of kingdoms' fall and fate of wars. 
From mystic dreams and course of stars. 
He shall tell if middle earth 
To that enchanting shape gave birth, 
Or if 'twas but an airy thing, 
Such as fantastic slumbers bring, 
Framed from, the rainbow's varying dyes. 
Or fading tints of western skies. 
For, by the blessed Rood I swear, 
If that fair form breathes vital air, 
No other maiden by my side 
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride ! " 



The faithful Page he mounts his steed, 

And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead,/ 

Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain. 

And Eden barr'd his course in vain. 

He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round ^ 

For feats of chivalry renown'd. 

Left Mayburgh's mound ^ and stones of 

power. 
By Druids raised in magic hour, 

* Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes 
from Cumberland into Westmoreland. There 
is a cairn on it said to be the monument ci 
Dunmail, the last King of Cumberland. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN'. 



235 



And traced the Eamont's winding way, 
Till Ulfo's *lake beneath him lay. 



Onward he rode, the pathway still 
Winding betwixt the lake and hill ; 
Till, on the fragment of a rock, 
Struck from its base by lightning shock, 

He saw the hoary Sage : 
The silver moss and lichen twined, 
With fern and deer-hair check' d and lined, 

A cushion fit for age ; 
And o'er him shook the aspen-tree, 
A restless rustling canopy. 
Tlien sprung young Henry from his selle, 

And greeted Lyulph grave, 
And then his master's tale did tell, 

And then for counsel crave. 
The Man of Years mused long and deep, 
Of time's lost treasures taking keep, 
And then, as rousing from a sleep, 

His solemn answer gave. 



" That maid is born of middle earth, 

And may of man be won, 
Though there have glided since her birth 

Five hundred years and one. 
But Where's the Knight in all the north, 
That dare the adventure follow forth. 
So perilous to knightly worth, 

In the valley of St. John ? 
Listen, youth, to what I tell, 
And bind it on thy memory well ; 
Nor muss that I commence the rhyme 
Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time. 
The mystic tale, by bard and sage. 
Is handed down from Merlin's age. 



lyulph's tale. 
"King Arthur has ridden from merry 
Carlisle 

When Pentecost was o'er . 
He journey'd like errant-knight the while, 
And sweetly the summer sun did smile 

On mountain, moss, and moor. 
Above his solitary track 
Rose Glaramara's ridgy back, 
Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun 
Cast umber' d radiance red and dun, 
Though never sunbeam could discern 
The surface of that sable tarn,* 
In whose black mirror you may spy 
^Ue fttars, -.vhile noonlide lights the sky. 

• Uli-water, 



The gallant King he skirted still 
The margin of that mighty hill ; 
Rock upon rocks incumbent hung, 
And torrents, down the gullies flung,' 
Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on, 
Recoiling now from crag and stone, 
Now diving deep from human ken, 
And raving down its darksome glen. 
The Monarch judged this desert wild^ 
With such romantic ruin piled, 
Was theatre by Nature's hand 
For feat of high achievement plannM 

XI. 
" O rather he chose, that INIonarch bcld, 

On vent'rous quest to ride, 
In plate and mail, by wood and wold, 
Than, with ermine trapp'd and cloth of gold,. 

In princely bower to bide ; 
The bursting crash of a foeman's spear 

As it shiver'd against his mail, 
Was merrier music to his ear 

Than courtier's whisper'd tale ; 
And the clash of Caliburn f more dear. 
When on the hostile casque it rung 
Then all the lays 
To their monarch's praise 
That the harpers of Reged sung. 
He loved better to rest by wood or river, 
Than in the bower of his bride, Dame 

Guenever, 
For he left that lady, so lovely of cheer. 
To follow adventures of danger and fear ; 
And the frank-hearted Monarch full little 

did wot. 
That she smiled, in his absence, on brave 
Lancelot. 

XII. 

" He rode, till over down and dell 
The shade more broad and deeper fell ; 
And though around the mountain's head 
Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, and 

red. 
Dark at the base, unblest by beam, 
Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the. 

stream. 
With toil the King his way pursued 
By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood^ 
Till on his course obliquely shone 
The narrow valley of S.a.in'T John, 
Down sloping to the western sky, 
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. 
Right glad to feel those beams again. 
The King drew up his charger's rein ; 



t King Arthur's sword, called by Tennysoa 
Excalibur. 



236 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight, 
As dazzled with the level light, 
And, from beneath his glove of mail, 
Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale. 
While 'gainst the sun his armor bright 
Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light. 

xni. 

*' Paled in by many a lofty hill. 
The narrow dale lay smooth and still, 
And, down its verdant bosom led, 
A winding brooklet found its bed. 
But, midmost of the vale, a mound 
Arose v/itli airy turrets crown' d. 
Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, 

And mighty keep and tower ; 
Seem'd some primeval giant's hand 
The castle's massive walls had plann'd, 
A ponderous bulwark to withstand 

Ambitious Nimrod's power. 
Above the moated entrance slung, 
The balanced drawbridge trembling hung, 

As jealous of a foe ; 
Wicket of oak, as iron hard. 
With iron studded, clench'd and barr'd, 
And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard 

The gloomy pass below. 
But the gray walls no banners crown'd, 
Upon the watch-tower's airy round 
No warder stood his horn to sound. 
No guard beside the bridge was found, 
And where the Gothic gateway frown'd. 

Glanced neither bill nor bow. 

XIV. 
" Beneath the castle's gloomy pride 
In ample round did Arthur ride 
Three times ; nor living thing he spied, 

Nor heard a living sound. 
Save that, avv'akening from her dream. 
The owlet now b^gan to scream, 
In concert with the rushing stream, 

That wash'd the battle mound. 
He lighted from his goodly steed, 
And he left him to graze on bank and mead 
And slowly he climb' d the narrow way, 
That reach'd the entrance grim and gray, 
And he stood the outward arch below, 
And his bugle-horn prepared to blow. 

In summons blithe and bold, 
Deeming to rouse from iron sleep 
The guardian of tl-jis dismal Keep, 

Which well he guess'd the hold 
Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, 
Or pagan of gigantic limb, 

The tyrant of the wold. 



" The ivory bugle's golden tip 

Twice toiich'd the monarch's manly lip, 

And twice his hand withdrew. 
— Think not but Arthur's heart was goodl 
His shield Was cross'd by the blessed rood, 
Had a pagan host before him stood, 

He had charged them through and 
through ; 
Yet the silence of that ancient place 
Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space 

Ere yet his horn he blew. 
But, instant as its 'larum rung. 
The castle gate was open flung, 
Portcullis rose with crashing groan 
Full harshly up its groove of stone ; 
The balance-beams obey'd the blast, 
And down the trembling drawbridge cast; 
The vaulted arch before him lay. 
With nought to bar the gloomy way, 
And onward Arthur paced, with hand 
On Caliburn's resistless brand, 

XVI. 

" A hundred torches, flashing bright, 
Dispell'd at once the gloomy night 

That lour'd along the walls, 
And show'd the King's astonish'd sight 

The inmates of the halls. 
Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim. 
Nor giant huge of form and limb, 

Nor heathen knight, was there ; 
But the cressets, which odors flung aloft, 
Show'd by their yellow light and soft, 

A band of damsels fair 
Onward they came, like summer wave 

That dances to the shore ; 
An hundred voices welcome gave, 

And welcome o'er and o'er I 
An hundred lovely hands assail 
The bucklers of the monarch's mail, | 

And busy labor'd to unhasp r 

Rivet of steel and iron clasp. 
One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair. 
And one flung odors on his hair , 
His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd do\vn; 
One wreathed them with a myrtle crown. 
A bride upon her wedding-day, 
Was tended ne'er by troop so gay, 

XVII. 

" Loud laugh'd they all, — the King, in vaii); 
With questions task'd the giddy train j 
Let him entreat, or crave, or call, 
Twas one reply — loud laugh'd they all. 
Then o'er him mimic chains they flinsr. 
Framed of the fairest fioWers of spring. , 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIE RM A IN. 



237 



.Wliile some their gentle force unite, 
Onward to drag the wondering kniglit, 
Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows, 
Dealt with the hly or the rose. 
Behind him were in triumph borne 
The warlike arms he late had worn. 
Four of the train combined to rear 
The terrors of Tintadgel's spear ;5 
Two, laughing at their lack of strength 
Uragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length ; 
One, while she aped a martial stride, 
'Placed on her brows the helmet's pride ; 
Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and surprise, 
To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes. 
With revel-shout, and triumph-song. 
Thus gayly march'd the giddy throng. 

XVIII. 
" Through many a gallery and hall 
They led, I ween, their royal thrall ; 
At length, beneath a fair arcade 
Their march and song at once they staid. 
The eldest maiden of the band, 

(The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,) 
Raised, with imposing air her hand, 
And reverent silence did command. 

On entrance of their Queen, 
And they were mute. — But as a glance 
They steal on Arthur's countenance, 

Bewilder'd with surprise, 
Their smother "d mirth again 'gan speak, 
In archly dimpled chin and cheek, 

And laughter-lighted eyes. 

XIX. 

** The attributes of those high days 
Now only live in minstrels-lays ; 
For Nature, now exhausted, still 
Was then profuse of good and ill. 
Strength was gigantic, valor high. 
And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky. 
And beauty had such matchless beam 
As lights not now a lover's dream. 
Yet e'en in that romantic age, 

Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen, 
As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage. 
When forth on that enchanted stage. 
With glittering train of maid and page,' 

Advanced the castle's Queen ! 
While up the hall she slowly pass'd, 
Her dark eye on the King she cast. 

That ii?.sh'd expression strong ; 
The longp' dwelt that lingering look, 
Her cheek che livelier color took. 
And scarce the shame-faced King could 
brook 

The gaze that lasted long. 



A sage, who had that look espied. 
Where kindling passion strove with pride, 

Had whispered, ' Prince, beware ! 
From the chafed tiger rend the prey. 
Rush on the lion when at bay. 
Bar the fell dragon's blighted way. 

But shun that lovely snare 1 ' — 

XX. 

" At once that inward strife suppress'd, 
The dame approach'd her' warlike guest, 
With greeting in that fair degree, 
Where female pride and courtesy 
Are blended with such passing art 
As awes at once and charms the heart. 
A courtly welcome first she gave, 
Then of his goodness 'gan to crave 

Construction fair and true 
Of her light maidens' idle mirth, 
Who drew from lonely glens their birth, 
Nor knew to pay to stranger worth 

And dignity their due ; 
And then she pray'd that he would rest 
That night her castle's honor'd guest. 
The Monarch meetly thanks express'd; 
The banquet rose at her behest. 
With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, 

Apace the evening flew. 

XXI. 

" The Lady sate the Monarch by, 
Now in her turn abash'd and shy, 
And with indifference seem'd to hear 
The toys he whisper'd in her ear. 
Her bearing modest was and fair, 
Yet shadows of constraint were there, 
That show'd an over-cautious care 

Some inward thought to hide ; 
Oft did she pause in full reply, 
And oft cast down her large dark eye, 
Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh. 

That heaved her besom's pride. 
Slight symptoms these, but shepherds knotl 
How hot the mid-day sun shall glow. 

From the mist of morning sky ; 
And so the wily Monarch guess"d, 
That this assumed restraint express'd 
More ardent passions in the breast, 

Than ventured to the eye. 
Closer he press'd, while beakers rang. 
While niaidens laugh'd and minstrels s3n.g, 

Still closer to her ear — 
But why pursue the common tale? 
Or wherefore show how knights prevai' 

When ladies dare to hear .? 
Or wherefore trace from what slight causf" 
Its source one tyrant passion draws, 



238 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Till, mastering all within, 
Where hves the man that has not tried, 
How mirth can into foil}'' glide, 

And folly into sin ? " 



CANTO SECOND. 



lyulph's tale, continued. 
** Another day, another day, 
And yet another glides away ! 
The Saxon stem, the pagan Dane, 
Maraud on Britain's shores again. 
Arthur, of Christendom the flower, 
Lies loitenng in a lady's bower ; 
The horn, that foemen wont to fear, 
Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer. 
And Cahburn, the British pride, 
Hangs useless by a lover's side. 



*' Another day, another day, 

And yet another, gUdes away ! 

Heroic plans in pleasure drown'd, 

He thinks not of the Table Round ; 

In lawless love dissolved his life, 

He thinks not of his beauteous wife : 

Better he loves to snatch a flower 

From bosom of his paramour. 

Than from a Saxon knight to wrest 

The honors of his heathen crest I 

Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown, 

The heron's plume her hawk struck down, 

Than o'er the altar give to flow 

The banners of a Paynim foe. 

Thus, week by week, and day by day, 

His life inglorious glides away: 

But she, that soothes his dream, with fear 

Beholds his hour of waking near ! 

III. 
'* Much force have mortal charms to stay 
Our peace in Virtue's toilsome way ; 
But Guendolen's might far outshine 
Each maid of merely mortal line. 
Her mother was of human birth, 
Her sire a Genie of the earth, 
In days of old deem'd to preside 
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride, 
By youths and virgins worshipp'd long. 
With festive dance and choral song, 
Till, when the cross to Britain came, 
On heathen altars died the flame. 
Now, deep in Wastdale solitude, 
The downfall of his rights he rued, 



And, born of his resentment heir. 
He train'd k) guile that lady fair. 
To sink in slothful sin and shame 
The champions of the Chri;.tian name. • 
Well skill'd to keep vain thoughts alive, , 
And all to promise, nought to give, — >•' 
The timid youth had hope in store, 
The bold and pressing gain'd no more. 
As wilder'd children leave their home,] 
After the rainbow's arch to roam, 
Her lovers barter'd fair esteem. 
Faith, fame, and honor, for a dream. 

IV. 

" Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame >| 

She practised thus — till Arthur came ; 

Theo, frail humanity had part. 

And all the mother chim'd her heart. ' 

Forgot each rule her father gave. 

Sunk from a princess to a slave, 

Too late must Guendolen deplore, 

He, that has all, can hope no more I 

Now must she see her lover strai>a 

At every turn her feeble chain ; 

Watch, to new-bind each knot, and shrink 

To view each fast-decaying link. 

Art she invokes to Nature's aid, 

Her vest to zone, her locks to braid; 

Each varied pleasure heard her call, 

The feast, the tourney, and the ball : 

Her storied lore she next applies, 

Taxing her mind to aid her eyes ; 

Nov/ more than mortal wise, and then 

In female softness sunk again : 

Now, raptured, with each wish complying. 

With feign'd reluctance now denying ; 

Each charm she varied, to retain 

A varying heart — and all in vain 1 

V. 
" Thus in the garden's narrow bound,' 
Flank'd by some castle's Gothic round. 
Fain would the artist's skill provide, 
The limits of his realms to hide. 
The walks in labyrinths he twines. 
Shade after shade with skill combines. 
With many a varied flowery knot, ' 
And copse, and arbor, decks the spot, 
Tempting the hasty foot to stay. 

And linger on the lovely way 

Vam art 1 vain hope I 'tis fruitless all ! 
At length we reach the bounding wall. 
And, sick of flower and trim-dress'd tree. 
Long for rough glades and forest free. 

VI. 
" Three summer months had scantly flowii, 
When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone, 
Spoke of his liegemen and his throne ; 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



239 



Said, all too long had been his stay, 
And duties, which a Monarch sway, 
Duties, unknown to humbler men, 
Must tear her knight from Guendolen. — 
She listen'd silently the while, 
Her mood express'd in bitter smile ; 
Beneath her eye must Arthur quail, 
And oft resume the"unfinish'd tale, 
Confessing, by his downcast eye. 
The wrong he sought to justify. 
He ceased. A moment mute she gazed. 
And then her looks to lieaven she raised ; 
One palm her temples veil'd, to hide 
The tear that sprung in spite of pride ! 
The other for an instant press'd 
The foldings of her silken vest i 



" At her reproachful sign and look. 

The hint the Monarch's conscience took. 

Eager he spoke — ' No, lady, no ! 

Deem not of British Arthur so, 

Nor tlnnk he can deserter prove 

To the dear pledge of mutual love. 

I swear by sceptre and by sword. 

As belted knight and Britian's lord, 

That if a boy shall claim my care. 

That boy is born a kingdom's heir ; 

But, if a' maiden Fate allows. 

To choose that maid a fitting spouse, 

A summer-day in lists shall strive 

l\Iy knights, — the bravest knights alive, — 

And he, the best and bravest tried, 

Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride.'— 

He spoke, with voice resolved and high — 

The lady deign'd him not reply. 

VIII. 

"At dawn of morn, ere on the brake 
His matins did a warbler make. 
Or stirr'd his wing to brush away 
A single dew-drop from tlie spray, 
Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist 
The castle-battlements had kiss'd, 
The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls, 
And Arthur sallies from the walls. 
Doff'd his soft garb of Persia's loom, 
.And steel from spur to helmet-plume. 
His Libyan steed full proudly trode, 
And joyful neigh'd beneath his load. 
The Monarch gave a passing sigh 
To penitence and pleasures by, 
V/hen, lo ! to his astonish'd ken 
Appear'd the form cf Guendolen. 



" Beyond tha outmost wall she stood, 
A tired like himtress of the wood : • 



Sandall'd her feet, her ankles bare, 

And eagle-plumage deck'd her hair ; 

Firm was her look, her bearing bold, 

And in her hand a cup of gold. 

' Tliou goest,' she said, ' and ne'er again 

Must we two meet, in joy or pain. 

Full fain would I this hour delay. 

Though weak the wish— yet, wilt thou stay. 

— No ! thou look'st forward. Still attend,- 

Part we like lover and like friend.' ' 

She raised the cup—' Not this the juice 

The sluggish vines of earth produce ; 

Pledge we, at parting, in the draught 

Which Genii love ! '- she said, and quaff' 'J ; 

And strange unwonted lustres fly 

From her flush'd cheek and sparkling eye. 



" The courteous Monarch bent him low. 
And, stooping down from saddlebow, 
Lifted the cup, in act to drink. 
A drop escaped the goblet's brinks 
Intense as liquid fire from hell. 
Upon the charger's neck it fell. 
Screaming with agony and fright, 
He bolted twenty feet upright — 
— The peasant still can show the dint. 
Where his hoofs lighted on the flint. — ' 
From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, 
Scattering a shower of fiery dew,^ 
That burn'd and blighted where it fell ! 
The frantic steed rush'd up the dell, 
As whistles from the bow the reed ; 
Nor bit nor rein could check his speed, 

Until he gain'd the hill ; 
Then breath and sinew fail'd apace, 
And, reeling from the desperate race, 

He stood, exhausted, still. 
The Monarch, breathless and amazed, 

Back on the fatal castle gazed 

Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, 
Darkening against the morning sky ;7 
But, on the spot where once they frown'd, 
The lonely streamlet brawl'd around 
A tufted knoll, where dimly shone 
Fragments of rocks and rifted stone. 
Musing on this strange hap the while, 
The king wends back to fair Carlisle : 
And cares, that cumber royal sway. 
Wore memory of the past av/ay. 



" Full fifteen years, and more, were sped. 
Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's hea<l 



a4o 



SCOtT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought.^ 

The Saxons to subjection brought : 

Rython, the mighty giant, slain 

By his good brand, relieved ISretagne : 

The Pictish Gillamore in fight, 

And Roman Lucius own'd his might ; 

And wide were through the world renown'd 

The glories of his Table Round. 

Each knight who sought adventurous fame, 

To the bold court of IBritain came, 

And all who suffer'd causeless wrong. 

From tyrant proud, or faitour strong, 

Sought Arthur's presence to complain, 

Nor there for aid implored in vain. 



" For this the King, with pomp and pride, 
Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, 

And summon'd Prince and Peer, 
All who owed homage for their land, 
Or who craved knighthood from his hand, 
Or who had succor to demand, 

To come from far and near. 
At such high tide were glee and game 
Mingled with feats of martial fame. 
For many a stranger champion came, 

In lists to break a spear ; 
And not a knight of Arthur's host, 
Save that he trode some tore.gn coast, 
But at this feast of Pentecost 

Before him must appear. 
Ah, Minstrels ! when the Table Round 
Arose, with all its warriors crown'd. 
There was a theme for bards to sound 

In triumph to their string I 
Five hundred years are past and gone, 
But time shall draw his dying groan, 
Ere he behold the British throne 

Begirt with such a rina; ; 



" The heralds named the appointed spot, 
As Caerleon or Camelot, 

Or Carlisle fair and free. 
At Penrith, now, the feast was set, 
And in fair Eamont's vale were met 

The flower of Chivalry. 
There Gaiaad sate with manly grace. 
Vet maiden meekness in his face ; 
There Morolt of the iron mace, 

And love-lorn Tristrcm there; 9 
And Dinadam with lively glance. 
And Lanval with the fairy lance. 
And Mordred with iiis look askance, 

Brunor and Beviderc. 
Why should I tell of members more ? 
Sir Cay, Sir Bannier, and Sir Bore, 



Sir Carodac the keen. 
The Gentle Gawain's courteous lore, 
Hector de Mares and Pellinore, 
And Lancelot, that evermore 

Look'd stol'n-wise on the Queen." 

XIV. 

" When wine and mirth did most abound, 
And harpers play'd their blithest round, 
A shrilly trumpet shook the ground. 

And marshals clear'd the ring ; 
A maiden, on a palfrey white. 
Heading a band of damsels bright. 
Paced through the circle, to alight 

And kneel before the King. 
Arthur, with strong emotion, saw 
HeF-graceful boldness check'd by awe, 
Her dress, like huntress of the wold. 
Her bow and baldric trapp'd with gold, 
Her sandall'd feet, her ankles bare, 
And the eagle-plume that deck'd her hair. 

Graceful her veil she backward flung 

The King, as from his seat he sprung. 

Almost cried, ' Guendolen ! ' 
But 'twas a face more frank and wild. 
Betwixt the woman and the child, 
Where less of magic beauty smiled 

Than of the race of men ; 
And in the forehead's haughty grace. 
The lines of Britain's royal race, 

Pendragon's you might ken. 



" Faltering, yet gracefully, she said — 
' Great Prince ! ' behold an orphan maid, 
In her departed mother's name, 
k father's vow'd protection claim ! 
The vow was sworn in desert lone, 
In the deep valley of St. John.' 
At once the King the suppliant raised, 
.And kiss'd her brow, her beauty praised; 
His vow, hfc said, should well be kept, 
Ere in the sea the sun was dipp'd, — 
Then, conscious, glanced upon his queen; 
But she, unruffled at the scene 
Of human frailty, construed mild, 
Look'd upon Lancelot and smiled. 



" ' Up ! up ! each knight of gallant crest 

Take buckler, spear, and brand ! 
He that to-day shall bear him best, 

Shall win my Gynetli's hand. 
And Arthur's daughter, when a bride, 

Shall bring a noble dower ; 
Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide, 

And Carlisle town and tower.' 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN', 



241 



Then might you hear each valiant knight, 

To page and squire that cried, 
* Bring my armor bright, and my courser 

wight! 
'Tis not each day that a warrior's might 

I\Iay win a royal bride.' 
Then cloaks and caps of maintenance 

In haste aside they fling ; 
The helmets glance, and gleams the lance, 

And the steel-weaved hauberks ring. 
Small care had they of their peaceful array, 

They might gather it that wolde ; 
For brake and bramble glitter' d gay, 

With pearls and cloth of gold. 

XVII. 
*' Within trumpet sound of the Table 
Round 

Were fifty champions free, 
And they all arise to fight that prize, — 

They all arise but three. 
Nor love's fond troth, nor wedlock's oath, 

One gallant could withhold, 
For priests will allow of a broken vow, 

For penance or for gold. 
But sigh and glance from ladies bright 

Among the troop were thrown. 
To plead their right, and true-love plight, 

And 'plain of honor flown. 
The knights they busied them so fast, 

With buckling spur and belt. 
That sigh and look, by ladies cast, 

Were neither seen nor felt. 
From pleading or upbraiding glance, 

Each gallant turns aside, 
And only thought, ' If speeds my lance, 

A queen becomes my bride ! 
She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged 
wide. 

And CarUsle tower and town ; 
She is the lovliest maid, beside. 

That ever heir'd a crown.' 
So in haste their coursers they bestride, 

And strike their visors down. 



" The champions, arm'd in martial sort, 

Have throng'd into the list, 
And but three knights of Arthur's court 

Are from the tourney miss'd. 
And still these lovers' fame survives 

For faith so constant shown — 
There were two who loved their neighbor's 
wives. 

And one who loved his own." 
The first was Lancelot de Lac, 

The second Tristrem bold, 



The third was valiant Carodac, 

Who won the cup of. gold, '^ 
What time, of all King Arthur's crew, 

(Thereof came jeer and laugh,) 
He, as the mate of lady true. 

Alone the cup could quaff. 
Though envy's tongue would fain surmise. 

That but for very shame. 
Sir Carodac, to fight that prize, 

Had given both cup and dame , 
Yet, since but one of that fair court 

Was true to wedlock's shrine. 
Brand him who will with base report, — - 

He shall be free from mine. 

XIX. 

" Now caracoled the steeds in air. 
Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair, 
As all around the lists so wide 
In panoply the champions ride. 
King Arthur saw with startled eye, 
The flower of chivalry march by. 
The bulwark of the Christian creed, 
The kingdom's shield in hour of need. 
Too late he thought him of the woe 
Might from their civil conflict flow ; 
For well he knew he would not part 
Till cold was many a gallant heart. 
His hasty vow he 'gan to rue, 
And Gyneth then apart he drew ; 
To her liis leading-staff resign'd, 
But added caution grave and kind. 

XX. 

" ' Thou seest, my child, as promise-bound. 

I bid the trump for tourney sound. 

Take thou my warder as the queen 

And umpire of the martial scene ; 

But mark thou this : — as Beauty bright 

Is polar star to valiant knight. 

As at her word his sword he draws, 

His fairest guerdon her applause. 

So gentle maid should never ask 

Of knighthood vain and dangerous task ; 

And Beauty's eyes should ever be 

Like the twin stars that soothe the sea, 

And Beauty's breath shall whisper peace," 

And bid the storm of battle cease, 

I tell thee this, lest all too far, 

These knights urge tourney into war. 

Blithe at the trumpet let them go. 

And fairly counter blow for blow ; — 

No striplings these, who succor need 

For a razed helm or falling steed. 

But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm, 

And threatens death or deadly harm. 

Thy sire entreats, thy king commands, 

Thou drop the warder from thy hamds. 



3^2 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Trust thou thy father with thy fate, 
Doubt not he choose tliee fitting mate ; 
Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride 
A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.' 



' A proud and discontented glow 
O'ershadow'd Gyneth's brow of snow ; 

She put the warder by : — 
'Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said, 
' Thus chaffer'd down and limited, 
Debased and narrow'd for a maid 

Of less degree than I. 
No petty chief but holds his heir 
At a morj honor'd price and rare 

Than Britain's King holds me! 
Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower. 
Has but her father's rugged tower, 

His barren hill and lee. — 
King Arthur swore, " By crown and sword, 
Asb'eitea knight and Britain's lord, 
That a whole summer's day should strive 
His knights, the bravest knights alive 1 " 
Recall l:vine oath ! and to her glen 
Poor Gyneth can return agen ! 
Not on thy daughter will the stain, 
That soils thy sword and crown remain. 
But think not she will e'er be bride 
Save to the bravest, proved and tried ; 
Pendragon's daughter will not fear 
For clashing sv/ord or splinter' d spear, 

Nor shrink though blood should flow ; 
And all too well sad Guendolen 
Hath taught the faithlessness of men, 
That child of hers should pity, when 

Their meed they undergo.' — 



" He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch 

bold :— 
' I give — what I may not withhold ; 
For, nrt for danger, dread, or death, 
Must British Arthur break his faith. 
Too late I mark, thy mother's art 
Hath taught thee this relentless part. 
1 blame her net, for she had wrong, 
But not to these my faults belong. 
Use, then, the warder as thou wilt ; 
But trust me, if life be spilt, 
In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, 
Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.' 
With that he turn'd his head aside, 
Norbrook'd to gaze upon her pride, 
As, with the truncheon raised, she sate 
The arbitress of mortal fate : 
Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed, 
How the bold champions stood opix)sed, 



For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell 
Upon his ear like passing bell ! 
Then first from sight of martial fray 
Did Britain's hero" turn awa,y. 



" But Gyneth heard the clangor high, 
As hears the hawk the partridge cry. 
Oh, blame her not ! the blood was hers, 
That at the trumpet's summons stirs! — 
And e'en the gentlest female eye 
Might brave the strife of chivalry 

A while untroubled view ; 
So well accomplish'd was each knight. 
To strike and to defend in fight, 
Their meeting was a goodly sight. 

While plate and mail held true. 
The lists with painted plumes were strewn, 
Upon the wind at random throvv-n, 
But helm and breastplate bloodless shone, 
It seem'd their fcather'd crests alone 

Should this encounter rue. 
And ever, as the combat grows 
The trumpet's cheery voice arose. 
Like lark's shrill song the flourish flows. 
Heard while the gale of April blows 

The merry greenwood through. 

XXIV. 

" But soon to earnest grew their game, 
The spears drew blood, the swords struck 

flame, 
And, horse and man, to ground there came 

Knights, who shall rise no more! 
Gone was the pride the war that graced, 
Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced, 
And steel coats riven, and helms unb/aced, 

And pennons stream'd with gore. 
Gone, too, were fence and fair array, 
And desperate strength made deadly vi^ay 
At random through the bloody fray, 
And blows were dealt with heacilcng sway, 

Unheeding where they fell ; 
And now the trumpet's clamors seem 
Like the shrill sca-bird's wailing scream. 
Heard o'er the v.-hirlpool's gulfing stream, 

The sinking seaman's knell ! 

XXV. 

" Seem'd in this dismal hour, that Fate 
Would Camlan's ruin antedate, 

And spare dark iSIordred's crime; 
Already gasping on the ground 
Lie twenty of the Table Round, 

Of chivalry th.e prime. 
Arthur, in anguish, tore away 
From head and beard his tresses gray, 
And she, proud Gyneth, felt disixiayf 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIiV. 



243 



And quaked with ruth and fear ; 
But still she deem'd her mother's shade 
Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade 
The sign that had the slaughter staid, 

And chid the rising tear. 
Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell, 
Helias the White, and Lionel, 

And many a ch.ampion more ; 
Rochemont and Dinadam are down, 
^nd Ferrand of the Forest Brown 

Lies gasping in his gore, 
Vance, by mighty Morolt press'd 
Even to the confines of the list, 
Young Vanoc of the beardless face, 
(Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race,) 
O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, 
His heart's-blood dyed her sandals red. 
But then the sky was overcast, 
Then howl'd at once a wliirhvind's blast, 

And, rent by sudden thro2s, 
Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, 
And from the gulf, — tremendous birth \ — 

The form of Merlin rose. 



*' Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed 

The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, 
And sternly raised his hand : — 

* Madmen,' he said, ' your s*;rife forbear ; 

And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear 
The doom thy fates demand ! 
Long shall close in stony sleep 
Eyes for ruth that would not weep ; 
Iron letjiargy shall seal 
Heart that pity scorn'd to feel. 
Yet, because thy mother's art 
Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart, 
And for love of Arthur's race. 
Punishment is blent with grace. 
Thou shalt bear thy penance lone 
In the Valley of Saint John, 
And this weird * shall overtake thee ; 
Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee, 
For feats or arms as far renown'd 
As warrior of the Table Round. 
Lon^ endurance of thy slumber 
Well may teach the world to number 
All their woes from Gynetlvs pride, 
When the Red Cross champions died.' 

XXVII. 

" As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye 
Slumber's load begins to lie ; 
Fear and anger vainly strive 
Still to keep its light alive. 

* Doom. 



Twice, with effort and with pause, 
O'er her brow her hand she draws ; 
Tv/ice her strength in vain she tries, 
From the fatal chair to rise, 
INIerlin's magic doom is spoken, 
Vanoc's death must now be wroken. 
Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall, 
Curtaining each azure ball. 
Slowly as on simimer eves 
Violets fold their dusky leaves. 
The weighty baton of command 
Now bears down her sinking hand, 
On her shoulder droops her head ; 
Net of pearl and golden thread. 
Bursting, gave her locks to flow 
O'er her arm and breast of snow. 
And so lovely seem'd she there, 
Spell-bound in her ivory chair, 
That her angry sire, repenting. 
Craved stern IVIerlin for relenting, 
And the champions, for her sake, 
Would again the contest wake ; 
Till, in necromantic night, 
Gyneth vanish' d from their sight. 

XXVIII. 

" Still she bears her weird alone 
Jn the Valley of Saint John ; 
And her semblance oft will seem, 
IMingling in a champion's dream. 
Of her weary lot to 'plain. 
And crave his aid to burst her chain. 
While her wondrous tale was new. 
Warriors to her rescue drew. 
East and west, and south and north, 
From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth. 
Most have sought in vain the glen, 
Tower nor castle could they ken ; 
Not at every time or tide. 
Nor by every eye, descried. 
Fast and vigil must be borne, 
Many a night in watching worn, 
Ere an eye of mortal powers 
Can discern those magic towers. 
Of the persevering few. 
Some from hopeless task withdrexT, 
When they read the dismal tlireat 
Graved upon the gloomy gate. 
Few have braved the yawning doo^ 
And those few rcturn'd no more. 
In the lapse of time forgot, 
Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot ; 
Sound her sleep as in the tomb. 
Till waken'd by the trump of doom." 

END OF LYULPIl's TALE. 



£44 



scorrs poetical works. 



Here pause my tale ; for all too soon, 
My Lucy, comes the hour cf noon. 
Already from thy lofty dome 
Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam, 
And each, to kill the goodly day 
That God has granted them, his way 
Of lazy sauntering has sought ; 

Lordlings and witlings not a few, 
Incapable of doing aught, 

Yet ill at ease with nought to do. 
Here is no longer place for me ; 
Fcr, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see 
Seme phantom fashionably thin. 
With limb of lath and kerchicf'd chin, 
And lounging gape, or sneering grin, 
Steal sudden on our privacy. 
And how should I, so humbly born, 
F.ndure'the graceful spectre's scorn ? 
Faith ! ill, 1 fear, while conjuring wand 
Of English oak is hard at hand. 

II. 
Or grant the hour bo all too soon 
For Hessian boot and pantaloon, 
And grant the lounger seldom strays 
Beyond the smootii and gravell'd maze, 
Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train 
Folds hearts of more adventurous strain. 
Artists are hers, who scorn to trace 
Their rules from Nature's boundless grace, 
But their right paramount assert 
To limit her by pedant art, 
Damning whate'er of vast and fair 
Exceeds a canvas three feet square. 
This thicket, for ihen giunption fit, 
I\Iay furnish such a happy Int. 
Bards, too, are hers, v/ont to recite 
Their own sweet lays by waxen light. 
Half in the salver's tingle drown'd, 
While the chassc-cafc glides around ; 
And such may hither secret stray. 
To labor an extempore : 
Or sportsman, with his boisterous hollo 
Llay here his wiser spaniel follow. 
Or stage-struck Juliet may presume 
To choose this bower for tiring-room ; 
l\nd we alike must shun regard. 
From painter, player, sportsman, bard. 
Insects that skim in Fashion's sky, 
Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly, 
Lucy, have all alarms for us. 
For all can hum and all can buzz. 

III. 

But oh, my Lucy, say how long 
We still must dread this trifling throng, 
And stoop to hide, with coward art, 
The genuine feeUngs of the heart 1 



No parents thine whose just command 

Should rule their child's obedient hand : 

Thy guardians, with contending voice, 

Press each his individual choice. 

And which is Lucy's 1 — Can it be 

That puny fop, trimm"d cap-a-pee, 

Who loves in the saloon to show 

The arms that never knew a foe ; 

Whose sabre trails along the ground, 

Whose legs in shapeless boots are drown'd I 

A new Achilles, sure, — the steel 

Fled from his breast to fence his heel ; 

One, for the simple manly grace 

That wont to deck our martial race, 

Who comes in foreign trashery 
Of tinkling chain and spur, 

A walking haberdashery, 
Of feathers, lace, and fur : 
In g.o\vley's antiquated phrase, 
Horse-milliner cf modern days ? 

IV. 

Or is it he, the wordy youth, 

So early train'd for statesman'r, part, 

Who talks of honor, faith, and trutli, 
As themes that he has got by heart ; 
Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach. 
Whose logic is from Single-speech ; '-^ 
Who scorns the meanest thought to vent, 
Save in the phrase of Parliament ; 
Who, in a tale of cat and mouse, 
Calls " order," and '' divides the house," 
Who •■'craves permission to reply," 
Whose " noble friend is in his eye ; " 
Whose loving tender some have rcckbn'd 
A viotion^ you should gladly second'^ 



What, neither ? Can there be a third, 
To such resistless swains preferr'd.? — 
O why, my Lucy, turn aside, 
With that quick glance of injured pride? 
Forgive me, love, I cannot bear 
That alter'd and resentful air. 
Were all the wealth of Russel mine, 
And all the rank of Howard's line. 
All would I give for leave to dry 
That dewdrop trembling in thine eye« 
Think not I fear such fops can wile 
From Lucy more than careless smile : 
But yet if wealth and high degree 
Give gilded counters currency, 
Must I not fear, when rank and birth 
Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth? 
Nobles there are, whose martial fires 
Rival ths fame that raised th.cir sires, 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIER MAIN. 



245 



And patriots' skill'd through storms of 

fate 
To guide and guard the reeling state. 
Such, such there are — if such should come, 
Arthur must tremble and be dumb, 
Self-exiled seek some distant shore, 
And mourn till life and grief are o'er. 



What sight, what signal of alarm, 
That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm ? 
Or is it, that the rugged way- 
Makes Beauty lean on lover's stay ? 
Oh, no ! for on the vale and brake, 
Kor sight nor sounds of danger wake, 
And this trim sward of velvet green, 
Were carpet for the Fairy Queen. 
That pressure slight was but to tell, 
That Lucy loves her Arthur well, 
And fain would banish from his mind 
Suspicious fear and doubt unkind. 

VII. 

But would'st thou bid the demons fly 
Like mist before the dawning sky, 
Tliere is but one resistless spell — 
Say, wilt thou guess, or must I tell ? 
'Twere hard to name, in minstrel phrase, 
A landaulet and four blood-bays. 
But bards agree this wizard band 
Can but be bound in Northern land. 
'Tis there — nay, draw not back thy 

hand !— 
'Tis there this slender figure round 
Must golden amulet be bound. 
Which, bless'd with many a holy prayer, 
Can change to rapture lover's care, 
And doubt and jealousy shall die, 
And fears give place to ecstasy. 



Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long 
Has been thy lover's tale and song. 
O, why so silent, love, I pray ? 
Have I not spoke the livelong day ? 
And will not Lucy deign to say 

One word her friend to bless ? 
I ask but one — a simple sound, 
WitJiin three little letters bound, 

O, let the word be YES ! 



CANTO THIRD. 

INTRODUCTION. 
I. 

Long lo"ed, long woo'd, and lately won, 
My life's best hope, and now mine own I 



Doth not this rude and Alpine glen 
Recall our favorite haunts agen ? 
A wild resemblance we can trace, 
Though reft of every softer grace. 
As the rough warrior's brow may bear 
A likenBss to a sister fair. • 

Full well advised our Highland host. 
That this wild pass on foot be cross'd. 
While round Ben-Cruach's mighty base 
Wheel the slow steeds and lingering chaise 
The keen old carle, with Scottish pride, 
He praised his glen and mountains v;idej 
An eye he bears for nature's face, 
Ay, and for woman's lovely grace. 
Even in such mean degree we find 
The subtle Scot's observing mind ; 
For, nor the chariot nor the train 
Could gape of vulgar wonder gain, 
But when old Allan would expound 
Of Beal-na-paish * the Celtic sound. 
His bonnet doff'd, and bow, applied 
His legend to my bonny bride ; 
While Lucy blush'd beneath his eye, 
Courteous and cautious, shrewd and sly 

II. 

Enough of him. — Now, e'er we lose, 
Plunged in the vale, the distant views. 
Turn thee, my love ! look back once more 
To the blue lake's retiring shore. 
On its smooth breast the shadows seem 
Like objects in a morning dream, 
What time the slumberer is aware 
He sleeps, and all the vision's air : 
Even so, on yonder liquid lawn. 
In hues of bright reflection drawn. 
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie. 
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky ; 
The summer-clouds so plain we note. 
That we might count each dappled spot: 
We gaze and we admire, yet know 
The scene is all delusive show. 
Such dreams of bliss would Arthur dra^v. 
When first his Lucy's form he saw ; 
Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew. 
Despairing they could e'er prove true i 

III. 
But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view 

Up the fair glen, our destined war ; 
The fairy path that we pursue, 
Distinguish'd but by greener hue, 

Winds round the purple brae, 
While Alpine flowers of varied dye 
For carpet serve, or tapestry. 

* Beal-7ia-paish, in English the Vale *{ tli« 
Endal. 



246 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



See how the little runnels leap, 

In threads of silver, down the steep, 

To swell the brooklet's moan ! 
Seems that the Highland Naiad grieves, 
Fantastic while her crown she weaves, 
Of^'owan, birch, and alder-leaves. 

So lovely, and so lone. 
There's no illusion there ; these flowers, 
That wailing brook, these lovely bowers. 

Are, Lucy, all our own ; 
And, since thine Arthur call'd tliee wife 
Such seems the prospect of his hfe, 
A lovely path, on-winding still, 
By gurgling brook and sloping hill. 
'Tis true, that mortals cannot tell 
What waits them in the distant dell ; 
But be it hap, or be it harm. 
We tread the pathway arm in arm. 



And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why 
I could thy bidding twice deny. 
When twice you pray'd I would again 
Resume the legendary strain 
0/ the bold knight of Triermain ? 
At length yon peevish vow you swore, 
That you would sue to me no more. 
Until the minstrel fit drew near, 
And made me prize a listening ear. 
But, loveliest, when thou first didst pray 
Continuance of the knightly lay. 
Was it not on the happy day 

That made thy hand mine own ? 
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy, 
Nought past, or present, or to be. 
Could I or think on, hear, or see, 

Save, Lucy, thee a'.one ! 
A giddy draught my rapture was, 
As ever chemist's macric £ras. 



Again the summons I denied 
In yon fair capital of Clyde : 
My Harp — or let me rather choose 
The good old classic form — ray Muse, 
{For Harp's an over-scutched phrase, 
Worn out by bards of modern days). 
My Muse, then — seldom will she wake. 
Save by dim wood and silent lake ; 
She is the wild and rustic Maid, 
Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread 
Where the soft greensward is inlaid 

With varied moss and thyme; 
And, lest the simple lily-braid. 
That coronets her temples, fade, 
She hides her still in greenwood shade, 

To meditate her rhyme. 



And now she comes ! The murmur dear 
Of the wild brook hath caught her ear, 

The glades hath won her eye. 
She longs to join with each blithe rill 
That dances down the Highland hill, 

Her blither melody. 
And now, my Lucy's way to cheer, 
She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes liear 
How closed the tale, my love whilere 

Loved for its chivalry. 
List how she tells, in notes of flame, 
" Child Roland to the dark tower came." 



CANTO THIRD. 



Bewcastle now must keep the Hold, 

Speir-Adam's steeds must bide in stall, 
'lartley-burn the bowmen bold 

Must only shoot from battled wall; 
And Liddesdale may buckle spur. 

And Teviot now ma belt the brand, 
Tarras and Ewes keep nightly stir, 

And Eskdale foray Cumberland. 
Of wasted fields and plunder'd flocks 

The Borderers bootless may complain ; 
They lack the sword of brave de Vaux, 

There come no aid from Triermain. 
That lord, on high adventure bound, 

Kath wander'd forth alone, 
And day and night keeps watchful round 

In the valley cf Saint John. 



When first began his vigil bold. 

The moon twelve summer nights was old, 

And shone both fair and full ; 
High in the vault of cloudless blue, 
O'er streamlet, dale, and rock she threw 

Her light composed and cool. 
Stretch'd on the brown hill's heathy breast. 

Sir Roland eyed the vale ; 
Chief where, distinguish'd from the rest. 
Those clustering rocks uprear'd their crest, 
The dwelling of the fair distress'd, 

As told gray Lyulph's tale. 
Thus as he lay the lamp of night 
Was quivering on his armor bright, 

In beams that rose and fell, 
And danced upon his buckler's boss, 
That lay beside him on the moss, 

As on a crystal well. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIER MA IN. 



247 



Ever he watch'd, and oft he deem'd, 
While on the mound the moonnght 
stream'd, 

It alter' d to his eyes; 
Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan 

change , 

To buttress'd walls their shapeless range, 
Fain think, by transmutation strange. 

He saw gray turrets rise. 
But scarce his heart with hope throbb'd 

high, 
Before the wild illusions fly, 

Wliich fancy had conceived, 
Abetted by an anxious eye 

That long'd to be deceived. 
It was a fond deception all, 
Such as, in solitary hall, 

Beguiles the musing eye. 
When, gazing on the sinking fire, 
Bulwarks, and battlement, and spire, 

In the red gulf we spy. 
For, seen by moon of middle night, 
Or by the blaze of noontide bright, 
Or by the dawn of morning light, 

Or evening's western flame, 
In every tide, at every hour. 
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, 

The rocks remain'd the same. 



Oft has he traced the charmed mound. 
Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round, 

Yet nothing might explore. 
Save that the crags so rudely piled, 
At distance seen, resemblance wild 

To a rough fortress bore. 
Yet stili his watch the Warrior keeps. 
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps, 

And drinks but of the well : 
Ever by day he walks the hill. 
And when the evening gale is chill, 

He seeks a rocky cell, 
Like hermit poor to bid bis bead, 
And tell his Ave and his Creed, 
invoking every saint at need, 

For aid to burst his spell. 

V. 

A.nd nov/ the moon her orb has hid. 
And dwindled to a silver thread, 

Dim seen in middle heaven, 
While o'er its curve careering fast. 
Before the fury of the blast 

The midnight clouds are driven. 
The brooklet raved, for on the hills. 
The upland showers had swoln the rills. 



And down the torrents came ; 
Mutter'd the distant thunder dread. 
And frequent o'er the vale was spread 

A sheet of lightning flame. 
De Vaux, within his mountain cave, 
(No human step the storm durst brave," 
To moody meditation gave 

Each faculty of soul, 
Till, lull'd by distant torrent sound, 
And the sad winds that whistled round, 
Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, 

A broken slumber stole. 

VI. 

'Twas then was heard a heavy sound, 

(Sound, strange and fearful there to hear, 
'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues around, 

Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer :) 
As, starting from his couch of fern, 
Again he heard in clangor stern, 

That deep and solemn swell, - - 
Twelve times, in m.easured tone, it spoke, 
Like some proud rr.ir.ster's pealing clock, 

Or city's 'larum-bell. 
What thought was Roland's first when fell, 
In that deep wilderness, the knel! 

Upon his startled ear ? 
To slander warrior were I loth, 
Yet must I hold my minstrel troth, — 

It was a thought of fear. 

VII. 

But lively was the mingled thrill 
That chased that momentary chill. 

For Love's keen wish was there, 
And eager Hope, and Valor high, 
And the proud glow of Chivalry, 

That burn'd to do and dare. 
Forth from the cave the Warrior rush'd, 
Long ere the mountain-voice was hush'd, 

That answer'd to the knell ; 
For long and far the unwonted sound, 
Eddying in echoes round and round, 

Was toss'd from fell to fell ; 
And Glaramara answer flung. 
And Grisdale-pike responsive rung. 
And Legbert heights their echoes swung, 

As far as Derwent's dell. 

VIII. 

Forth upon trackless darkness gazed 
The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed. 

Till all was hush'd and still, 
Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar. 
And the night-blast that wildly bore 

Its course along the hill. 
Then on the northern sky there came ■ 
A light, as of reflected flame, 



2 48 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS- 



And over Legbert-head, 
As if by magic art controll'd, 
A mighty meteor slowly roU'd 

its orb of fiery red ; 
Thou wouldst have thought some demon 

dire 
Came mounted on that car of fire, 

To do his errand dread. 
Far on the sloping valley's course, 
On thicket, roclc, and torrent hoarse, 
Shingle and Scrae, * and Fell ami FoYce,t 

A dusky light arose : 
Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene ; 
Dark rock, aiKl brook of silver sheen, 
Even the gay thicket's summer green, 

In bloody tincture glows. 

IX. 

De Vaux had mark'd the sunbeams set, 
At eve, upon the coronet 

Of tliat enchanted mound. 
And seen but crags at random flung, 
That, o'er the brawling torrent hung, 

In desolation frown'd. 
What sees he by that meteor's lour ? — 
A banner'd Castle, keep, and tower. 

Return the lurid gleam, 
With battled walls and buttress fast. 
And barbican \ and ballium§ vast 

Their shadows on the stream. 
"Tis no deceit! — distinctly clear 
Crenell || and parapet appear, 
While o'er the pile that meteor drear 

Makes momentary pause ; 
Then forth its solemn path it drew, 
And fainter yet and fainter grew 
Those gloomy towers upon the view, 

As its wild lisrht withdraws. 



Forth from the cave did Roland rush, 
O'er crag and stream, through brier and 
bush. 

Yet far he had -aot sped. 
Ere sunk was that portentous light 
Behind the hills, and utter night 

Was on the valley spread. 
He paused perforce, and blew his horn, 
^nd, on the mountain-echoes borne, 

Was heard an answering sound, 
A wild and lonely trumpet-note, — 

* Bank of loose stones. 
t Waterfall. 
% The outer defence of a castle gate. 
§ A fortified court. 
il Apcrturea ior shooting arrows. 



In middle air it seem'd to float 

High o'er the battled mound ; 
And sounds were heard, as v/hen a guard, 
Of some proud castle, holding ward, 

Pace forth their nightly round. 
The valiant Knight of Triermain 
Rung forth his challenge-blast again. 

But answer ca'me there none ; 
And 'mid the mingled wmd and rain. 
Darkling he sought the vale in vain, 

Until the dawning shone; 
And when it dawn'd, that wondrous sight. 
Distinctly seen by meteor light, 

It all had pass'd away ! 
And that enchanted mount once more 
A pile of granite fragments bore, 

As at the close of day. 



Steel'd for the deed, De Vaux's heart, 
Scorn'd from his vent'rous quest to part, 

He walks the vale once more ; 
But only sees, by night or day, 
That shatter'd pile of rocks so gray, 

Hears but the torrent's roar, 
Till when, through hills of azure borne, 
The moon renew'd her silver horn. 
Just at the time her waning ray 
Had faded in the dawning day, 

A summer mist arose ; 
Adown the vale the vapors float. 
And cloudy undulatiops moat 
That tufted mound of mystic note, 

As round its base they close. 
And higher now the fleecy tide 
Ascends its stern and shaggy side, 
Until the airy billows hide 

The rock's majestic isle ; 
It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn, 
By some fantastic fairy drawn 

Around enchanted pile. 



The breeze came softly down the brook. 

And, sighing as it blew, 
The veil of silver mist it shook, 
And to De Vaux's eager look 

Renew'd that wondrous view. 
For, though the loitering vapcr braved 
The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved 

its mantle's dewy fold ; 
And still, when shook that filmy screen, 
Were towers and bastions dimly seen, 
And Gothic battlements between 

Their gloomy length unroll'd. 
Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye 
Once more the fleeting vision die I 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIiY. 



249 



— The gallant knight 'gan speed 
As prompt and light as, when the hound 
Is opening, and the horn is wound, 

Careers the hunter's steed. 
Down the steep dell his course amain 

Hath rivall'd archer's shaft ; 
But ere the mound he could attain, 
The rocks their shapeless form regain, 
And, mocking loud his labor vain. 

The mountain spirits laugh'd. 
Far up the echoing ciell was borne 
Their wild unearthly shout of scorn. 



Wroth wax?d the Warrior. — "Am I then 

Fool'd by the enemies of men, 

Like a poor hind, whose homeward way 

Is haunted by malicious fay ! 

Is Triermaiii become your taunt, 

De Vaux your scorn ? False fiends, 

avaunt ! " 
A weighty curtal-axe he bare ; 
The baleful blade so briglit and square, 
And the tough shaft of heben wood, 
Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued. 
Backward his stately form he drew, 
And at the rocks the weapon threw, 
Just where one crag's projected crest 
Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest. 
Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's shock 
Rent a huge fragment of the rock. 
If by mere strength, 'twere hard to tell, 
Or if the blow dissolved some spell, 
But down the headlong ruin came, 
With cloud of dust and flash of flame. 
Down bank, o'er bush, its course was 

borne, 
Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was torn. 
Till staid at length, the ruin dread 
Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed. 
And bade the water's high-swoln tide 
Seek other passage for its pride. 

XIV. 

When ceased that thunder, Triermain 
Survey'd the mound's rude front again ; 
And lo ! the ruin had hid bare. 
Hewn in the stone, a winding stair. 
Whose moss'd and fractured steps might 

lend ^ 

The means the summit to ascend ; 
And by whose aid the brave Dc Vaux 
Began to scale these magic rocks. 

And soon a platform won. 
Where, the wild witchery to close, 
'V/ithin three lances' length arose 

The Castle of Saint John. 



No misty phantom of the air, 
No meteor-blazon'd show was- there ; 
In morning splendor, full and fair. 
The massive fortress shone. 

XV. . 

Embattled high and proudly tower'd 
Shaded .by pond'rous fiankers, lower'd 

The portal's gloomy way. 
Though for si.x hundred years and more, 
Its strength had brook' d the tempest's roar. 
The scutcheon'd emblems which it bore 

Had suffer'd no decay : 
But from the eastern battlement 
A turret had made sheer descent. 
And, down m rccent^ruin rent, 

In the mid torrent lay. 
Else, o'er the Castle's brow sublime, 
Insults of violence or of time 

Unfelt had pass'd away. 
In shapeless characters of yore. 
The gate this stern inscription bore :— « 

XVI. 
INSCRIPTION. 

" Patience waits the destined day, 
Strength can clear the cumber'd way. 
Warrior, who hast waited long. 
Firm of soul, of sinew strong. 
It is given thee to gaze 
On the pile of ancient days. 
Never mortal builder's hand 
This enduring fabric plann'd ; 
Sign and sigil, word of power, 
From the earth raised keep and tower. 
View it o'er, and pace it round, 
Rampart, turret, battled mound. 
Dare no more ! To cross the gate 
Were to tamper with thy fate: 
Strengtli and fortitude were vain. 
View it o'er— and turn again," 

XVII. 

" That would I," said the Warrior bold, 
"■ If that my frame were bent and old, 
And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold 

As icicle in thaw ; 
But while my heart can feel it dance, 
Blithe as the sparkling wine of France, 
And this good arm wields sword or lance, 

I mock these words of awe ! " 
He said ! the wicket felt the sway 
Of his strong hand, and straight gave way. 
And, with rude crash and jarring bray, 

The rusty bolts withdraw ; 
But o'er the threshold as b.e strode, 
And forward took the vaulted rosuj, 



25< 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



An unseen arm, with force amain, 
The ponderoirs gate flung close again, 

And rusted bolt and bar 
Spontaneous took their place once more, 
While the deep arch with sullen roar 

Return'd their surly jar. 
" Now closed is the gin and the prey within 

By the rood of Lanercost ! 
But he that would win the war-wolf's skin, 

May rue him of his boast." 
Thus muttering, on the Warrior v.-ent. 
By dubious light down deep descent. 

XVIII. 

Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port 
Led to the Castle's outer court : 
There the main fortress, broad and tall. 
Spread its long range of bower and hall, 

And towers of varied size, 
Wrought with each ornament extreme, 
That Gothic art, in wildest dream 

Of fancy, could devise ; 
But full between the Warrior's way 
And the main portal arch, there lay 

An inner moat ; 

Nor bridge nor boat 
Affords De Vaux the means to cross 
The clear, profound, and silent fosse. 
His arms asida in haste he flings. 
Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings. 
And down falls helm, and down the shield. 
Rough with the dints of many a field, 
Fair was his manly form, and fair 
His keen dark eye, and close curl'd hair, 
When, all unarm'd, save that the brand 
Of well-proved metal graced his hand. 
With nought to fence his dauntless breasf 
But the close gipon's * under-vest. 
Whose sullied buff the sable stains 
Of hauberk and of mail retains, — 
Roland De Vaux upon the brim 
Of the broad moat stood prompt to ewim. 



Accoutred thus he dared the tide. 
And soon he reach'd ihe farther side, 

Antl enter'd soon the Hold, 
And paced a hall, whose walls so v/ide 
Were blazon'd all with feats of pride, 

By warriors done of old. 
In middle lists tliey counter'd here, 

While trumpets seem'd to blow ; 
And there, in den or desert drear, 

They quelled gigantic foe, 

* A sort c£ doublet, worn beneath the a: 
tnor. 



Braved the fierce griffon in his ire, 
Or faced the dragon's breath of fire. 
Strange m their arms, and strange ia 

face. 
Heroes they seem'd of ancient race, 
Whose deeds of arms, and race, and name, 
Forgotten long by later fame, 

Were here depicted, to appal 
Those of an age degenerate. 
Whose bold intrusion braved their fate, 

In this enchanted hall. 
For some short space the venturous knighft 
With these high marvels fed his sight. 
Then sought the chamber's upper end, 
Where three broad easy steps ascend 

To an arch'd portal door, 
Tn whose broad folding leaves of state 
Was framed a wicket wmdow-grate, 

And, ere he ventured more, * 
The gallant Knight took earnest view 
The grated wicket-window through. 



O, for his arms ! Of martial weed 
Had never mortal kmght such need ! 
He spied a stately gallery ; all 
Of snow-white marble was the wall,. 

The vaulting, and the floor ; 
And, contrast strange, on either hand 
There stood array'd in sable band 

Four Maids whom Afric bore : 
And each a Libyan tiger led, 
Held by as bright and frail a thread 

As Lucy's golden hair, — 
For the leash that bound these monsters 
dread 

Was but of gossamer. 
Each Maiden's short barbaric vest 
Left all unclcsed the knee and breast, 

And limbs of shapely jet ; 
White was their vest and turban's fold, 
On arms and ankles rings of gold 

In savage pomp were set ; 
A quiver on their shoulders by, 
And in their hand an assagay. 
Such and so silent stood they there,' 

That Roland wellnigh hoped 
He saw a band of statues rare, 
Station'd the gazer's soul to scare ; 

But when the wicket oped. 
Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw, 
Roll'd his grim eye, and spread his claw, 
Scented the air, and lick'd his jaw j 
White these weird maids, in Moorish 
tongue, * 

A wild and dismal warning sung. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



251 



" Rash adventurer, bear tlice back J 
Dread the spell of Dahomay I 
Fear the race of Zaharak,* 
Daughters of the burning day ! 

*' When the whirlwind's gusts are wheeling, 

Ours it is the dance to braid ; 
Zarah's sands in pillars reeling, 

Join the measure that we tread, 
When the Moon has donn'd her cloak, 

And the stars ate red to see, * 
Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, 

Music meet for such as we. 
*^ Where the shatter'd columns lie, 

Showing Carthage once had been, 
If the wandering Santon's eye 

Our mysterious rites hath seen, — 
Oft he cons the prayer of death, 

To the nations preaches doom, 
* Azrael"s brand hath left the sheath ! 

Moslems, think upon the tomb ! ' 
" Ours the scorpion, ours the snake, 

Ours the hydra of the fen, 
Ours the tiger of the brake, 

All that plague the sons of men. 
Ours the tempest's midnight wrack. 

Pestilence that wastes by day — 
Dread the race of Zaharak ! 

Fear the spell of Dahomay?" 

XXII. 

Uncouth and strange the accent shril 

Rung those vaulted roofs among. 
Long it was ere, faint and still, 
Died the far resounding song. 
While yet the distant echoes roll, 
The Warrior communed with his soul. 
'* WJien first I took this venturous quest, 

I swore upon the rood. 
Neither to stop, nor turn, nor rest. 

For evil or for good. 
My forward path too well I ween, 
Lies yonder fearful ranks between ! 
For man unarm'd, 'tis bootless hope 
With tigers and v.-ith fiends to cope- 
Yet, if I turn, what waits me there, 
Save famine dire and fell despair .? — 
Other conclusion let mo try. 
Since, clioose howe'er I list, I die. 
Forward, lies faith and knightly fame ; 
Behind, are perjury and shame,- 
In life or death I hold my word ! " 
With that h.e drew his trusty sword. 
Caught down a banner from the wall, 
And enter'd thus the fearful hall. 

• The Arab name of the great deserU 



XXIII. 
On high each wayward Maiden threw 
Her swarthy arm, with wild halloo I 
On either side a tiger sprung — 
Against the leftward foe he flung 
The ready banner, to engage 
With tangling folds the brutal rage ; 
The right-hand monster in mid-air 
He struck so fiercely and so fair. 
Through gullet and through spinal bone, 
The trenchant blade had sheerly gone. 
His grisly brethren ramp'd and yell'd. 
But the slight leash their rage withheld. 
Whilst, 'twixt their ranks, the dangerous road 
Firmly, though swift, the champion strode. 
Safe to the gallery's bound he drew. 
Safe pass'd an open portal through ; 
And when against pursuit he flung 
The gate, judge if the echoes rung I 
Onward his daring course he bore, 
While, mix'd with dying growl and roar, 
Wild jubilee and loud hurra 
Pursued him on his venturous way. 

XXIV. 

'• Hurra, hurra ! Our watch is done 1 
We hail once more the tropic sun. 
Pallid beams of northern day. 
Farewell, farewell ! Hurra, hurra ! 

" Five hundred years o'er this cold glen 
Hath the pale sun come round agen ; 
Foot of man, till now, hath ne'er 
Dared to cross the Hall of Fear. 

" Warrior ! thou, whose dauntless heart 
Gives us from our ward to part, 
Be as strong in future trial, 
Where resistance is denial. 

" Now for Afric's glowing skj", 
Zwenga wide and Atlas high, 

Zaharak and Dahomay ! 

Mount the winds ! Hurra, hurra I " 

XXV. 

The wizard song at distance died, 

As if in ether borne astray, 
While through waste halls and chambers wid® 

The Knight pursued his steady way. 
Till to a lofty dome he came. 
That flasli'd with such a brilliant flame, 
As if the wealth of all the world 
Were there in rich confusion hurl'd. 
For here the gold, in sandy heaps, 
With duller earth, incorporate, sleeps, 
Was there in ingots piled, and there 
Coin'd badge of empery it bare \ 



352 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yonder, huge bars of silver lay, 
Dimm'd by the diamond's neighboring ray, 
Lilce the pale moon in morning day ; 
And in the midst four Maidens stand, 
The daughters of some distant land. 
Their hue was of the dark-red dye, 
That fringes oft a thunder^ sky ; 
■Their hands palmetto baskets bare. 
And cotton fillets bound their hair ; 
Slim was their form, their mien was shy, 
To earth they bent the humbled eye, 
Folded their arms, and suppliant kneel'd. 
And thus their proffer'd gifts reveal'd. 

XXVI, 
CHORUS. 

** See the treasures Merlin piled, 
Portion meet for Arthur's child, 
Bathe in Wealth's unbounded stream, 
Wealth that Avarice ne'er could dream ! " 

FIRST MAIDEN. 

*' See these clots of virgin gold! 
Sever'd from the sparry mould, 
Nature's mystic alchemy 
In the mine thus bade them lie ; 
And their orient smile can win 
Kings to stoop, and saints to sin." — 

SECOND MAIDEN. 

" See these pearls, that long have slept ; 
These were tears by Naiads wept 
For the loss of Marinel. 
Tritons in the silver shell 
Treasured them, till hard and white 
As the teeth of Amphitrite." — 

THIRD MAIDEN. 

" Docs a livelier hue delight ? 
Here are rubies blazing bright. 
Here the emerald's fairy green, 
And the topaz glows between ; 
Here their varied hues unite. 
In the changeful chrysolite."— 

FOURTH MAIDEN. 

" Leave these gems of poorer shine, 
Leave them all, and look on mijie ! 
Wliile their glories 1 expand. 
Shade thine eyebrows with thy hand. 
Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze 
Blind the rash beholder's gaze." — 

CHORUS. 

" Warrior, seize the splendid store ; 
Would 'twere all our mountains bore I 
Wc should ne'er in future story, 
"^.ead, Peni, thy perish'd glory 1 "^ 



Calmly and unconcern'd, the Knight , 
Waved aside the treasures bright : — ' 
" Gentle Maidens, rise, I pray I 
Bar not thus my destined way. 
Let these boasted brilliant toys 
Braid the hair of girls and boys ! 
Bid yoi;r streams of gold expand 
O'er proud London's thirsty land, 
De Vaux of wealth saw never need, 
Save to*purvey him arms and steed. 
And all the ore he deign'd to hoard 
Inlays his helm, and hilts his sword." 
Thus gently parting from their hold, 
He left, unmoved, the dome of gold. 

XXVIII. 
And now the morning sun was high, 
De Vaux was weary, faint, and dry ; 
When, lo ! a plashing sound he hears, 
A gladsome signal that he nears 

Some frolic water-run ; 
And soon he reach' d a court-yard square ; 
Where, dancing in the sultry air, 
Toss'd high aloft, a fountain fair 

Was sparkling in the sun. 
On right and left, a fair arcade,- 
In long perspective view display'd 
Alleys and bowers, for sun or shade : 

But, full in front, a door, 
Low-brow'd and dark, seem'd as it led 
To the lone dwelling of (he dead. 

Whose memory was no more. 

XXIX. 

Here stopp'd De Vaux an instant's space, 
To bathe his parched lips and face. 

And mark'd with well-pleased eye, 
Refracted on the fountain stream, 
In rainbow hues the dazzling beam 

Of that gay symmer sky. 
His senses felt a mild control. 
Like that which lulls the weary sod, 

From contemplation high 
Relaxing, when the ear receives 
The music that the greenwood leaves 

Make to the breezes' sigh. 

XXX. 

And oft in such a dreamy mood. 
The half-shut eye can frame 

Fair apparitions in the wood. 

As if the nymphs of field and flood 
In gay procession came. 

Are these of such fantastic mould. 

Seen distant down the fair arcade, 

These Maids enlink'd in sister-fold, ' 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN'. 



253 



Who, late at bashful distance staid, 

Now tripping from the greenwood shade, 
Clearer the musing champion draw. 
And, in a pause of seeming awe, 

Again stand doubtful now ? — 
Ah, that sly pause of witching powers ! 
Tliat seems to say, " To please be ours, 

Be yours to tell us how." 
Their hue was of the golden glow 
That suns of Candahar bestow, 
O'er wh'ch in slight suffusion flows 
A frequent tinge of paly rose; 
Their hmbs were fashion'd fair and free, 
In nature's justest symmetry ; [graced, 

And, wreath'd with flowers, with odors 
Their raven ringlets reach'd the waist.- 
In eastern pomp, its gilding pale 
The hennah lent each shapely nail, 
And the dark sumah gave the eye 
More liquid and more lustrous dye. 
The spotless veil of misty lawn. 
In studied disarrangement, drawn 

The form and bosom o'er, 
To win the eyr, or tempt the touch-. 
For modesty show'd all too much — 
Too much — yet promised more. 

XXXI. 

" Gentle Knight, a while delay," 
Thus they sung, '• thy toilsome way, 
While we pay the duty due 
To our Master and to you. 
Over Avarice, over Fear, 
Love triumphant led thee here ; 
Warrior, list to us^ for v/e 
Are slaves to Love, are friends to thee. 
Though no treasured gems have we, 
To proffer on the bended knee, 
Though we boast nor arm nor heart, 
For the assagay or dart. 
Swains allow each simple girl 
Ruby lip and teeth of pearl ; 
Or, if dangers more you prize, 
Flatterers find them in our eyes. 

" Stay, then, gentle Warrior, stay, 
Rest till evening steal on day ; 
Stay, O, stay ! — in yonder bowers 
We will braid thy locks with flowers, 
Spread the feast and fill the wine, 
Charm thy ear wjth sounds divine. 
Weave our dances till delight . 
Yield to langour, day to night. 

"Then shall she you most approve, 
Sing the lays that best you love, 
Soft thy mossy couch shall spread, 
Wctch thy pillow, prop thy head, 



Till the weary night be o'er — 
Gentle Warrior, wouldst thou more ? 
Wouldst thou more, fair Warrior, — ^she 
Is slave to Love and slave to thee." 

XXXII. 
0, do not hold it for a crime 
In the bold hero of my rhyme, 

For Stoic look 

And meet rebuke. 
He lack'd the heart or time ; 
As round the band of sirens trip, 
He kiss'd one damsel's laughing lip, 
And press'd another's proffer'd hand. 
Spoke to them all in accents bland, 
But broke their magic circle through ; 
" Kind Maids," he said, " adieu, adieu I 
My fate, my fortune, forward lies." 
He said, and vanish'd from their eyes; 
But, as he dared that darksome way, 
Still heard behind their lovely lay:— 
" Fair Flower of Courtesy, depart ! 
Go, where the feelings of the heart 
With the warm pulse in concord move ; 
Go, where Virtue sanctions Love 1 " 

XXXIII. 

Downward De Vaux through darksome 
ways 
And ruin'd vaults has gone, 
Till issue from their wilder'd maze. 

Or safe retreat, seem'd none. 
And e'en the dismal path he strays 
Gre\y worse as he went on. 
For cheerful sun, for living air, 
Foul vapors rise and mine-fires glare. 
Whose fearful fight the dangers show'd, 
That dogg'd him on that dreadful road ; 
Deep pits, and lakes of waters dun. 
They show'd, but show'd not how to shun. 
These scenes of desolate despair, 
These smothering clouds of poison'd air, 
How gladly had De Vaux exchanged, 
Though 'twere to face yon tiger's range ; 

Nay, soothful bard's have said. 
So perilous his state seem'd now 
He wish'd him under arbor bough 

With Asia's willing maid. 
When, joyful sound ! at distance near, 
A trumpet flourish'd loud and clear. 
And as it ceased, a lofty lay 
Seem'd thus to chide his lagging way. 

XXXIV. 

" Son of Honor, theme of story, 
Think on the reward before ye ! 
Danger, darkness, toil despise; 
'Tis Ambition bids thee rise. 



254 



SCO rrs foe tic a l works. 



" He that would her heights ascend, 
Many a weary step must wend ? 
H;md and foot and knee he tries ; 
Thus Ambition's minions rise. 

" Lag not now, though rough the waj', 
Fortune's inood brooks no delay ; 
Grasp the boon that's spread before ye, 
Monarch's power, and Conqueror's glory ! 

It ceased. Advancing on the sound, 
A steep ascent the Wanderer found, 

And then a turret stair : 
Nor climb' d he far its steepy round 

Till iresiier blew the air, 
And next a welcome glimpse was given, 
That cheer'd him with the light of heaven. 

At length his toil had won 
A lofty hall with trophies dress'd, 
Where, as to greet imperial guest. 
Four Maidens stood, whose crimson vest 

Was bound with golden zone. 



Of Europe seem'd the damsels all ; 
The first a nymph of lively Gaul, 
"Whose easy step and laughing eye 
Her borrow'd air of awe belie ; 

The next a maid ol Spain, 
Dark-eyed, dark-hair' d, sedate, yet bold ; 
White ivory skin and tress of gold, 
Her shy and bashful comrade told 

For daughter of Almaine. 
These maidens bore a royal robe, 
With crown, with sceptre, and with globe, 

Emblems of empery ; 
The fourth a space behind them stood, 
And leant upon a harp, in mood 

Of minstrel ecstasy. 
Of merry England she, in dress 
Like ancient I3ritish Druidess. 
Her hair an azure fillet bound, 
Her graceful vesture swept the ground, 

And, in her hand display'd, 
A crown did that fourth Maiden hold, 
But imadorn'd with gems and gold, 

Of glossy laurel made. 



At once to brave Dc Vaux knelt down 
These foremost Maidens three, 

And proffer'd sceptre, robe, and crown, 
Liegedom and seignorie, 

O'er many a region wide and fair, 

Destined, they said, for Arthur's heir ; 
But homage would he none : — 



" Rather," hs said, " Dc -Vaux would ride, 

A Warden of the Border-side, 

In plate and mail, than, robed in pride, 

A monarch's empire ov/n ; 
Rather, far rather, would he be 
A free-born knight of England free, 

Than sit on Despot's throno." 
So pass'd he on, when that fourth Maid, 

As starting from a trance, 
Upon the harp her finger laid ; 
Her magic touch the chords obey'd, 

Their soul awaked at once ! 

SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN. 

" Quake to your foundations deep, 
Stately Towers, and Baune'r'd K^ep, 
Bid your vaulted echoes moan. 
As the dreaded step they own. 
"Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spell, 
Here the foot-fall 1 mark it well ! 
Spread your dusty wings abroad, 
Boune ye for your homeward road ! 

" It is His, the first who e'er 
Dared the dismal Hall of Fear; 
His, who hath the snares defied 
Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride. 

" Quake to your foundations deep, 
Bastion huge, and Turret steep ! 
Tremble, Keep, and totter, Tower ! 
This is Gyneth's waking hour." 

XXXVII. 

Thus while she sung, the venturous Knight 
Has reach'd a bower, where milder light 

Through crimson curtains fell ; 
Such soften'd shade the hill receives, 
Her purple veil when twilight leaves 

Upon its vvestern swell. 
That bower, the gazer to bewitch, 
Hath wondrous store of rare and rich 

As e'er was seen with eye ; 
For there by magic skill, I wis. 
Form of each thing tiiat living is 

Was limn'd in proper dye. 
All seem'd to sleep — the timid hare 
On form, the stag upon his lair, 
The eagle in her eyrie fair 

Between the earth and sky. 
But what of pictured rich and rare 
Could win De Vaux's ej'e-glance, where, 
Deep slumbering in the fatal chair, 

He saw King Arthur's child 1 
Doubt, and anger, and dismay, 
From her brow had pass'd away, 
Forgot was that fell tourney-day, 

For, as she slept, she smiled : 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN: 



255 



It seem'd, that the repentant Seer 

Her sleep of many a hundred year 

\Vith gentle dreams beguiled. 

XXXVIII. 

That form c f maiden loveliness, 

'Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, 
That ivory chair, that sylvan dress, 
The arms and ankles bare, express 

Of Lyulph's tale the truth. 
Still upon her garments hem 
Vance's blood made purple gem, 
And the warder of command 
Cumber'd still her sleeping hand ; 
Still her dark locks dishevell'd flow 
From net of pearl o'er breast of snow ; 
And so fair th.e slumberer seems, 
That De Vaux impeach'd his dreams, 
Vapid all and void of might, 
Hiding half her charms from sight. 
Motionless a while he stands, 
Folds his arms and clasps his hands, 
Trembling in his fitful joy. 
Doubtful how he should destroy 

Long-enduring spell ; 
Doubtful, too, when slowly rise 
Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes, 

what these eyes shall tell. — 
" St. George! St. Mary! can it be, 
That they will kindly look on me ! 

XXXIX. 

Gently, lo ! the Warrior kneels. 
Soft that lovely hand he steals, 
Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp — 
But the warder leaves her grasp ; 

Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder, 
Gyneth startles from her sleep, 
Totters Tower, and trembles Keep, 

Burst the Castle-walls asunder ! 
Fierce and frequent were the shocks, — 

Melt the magic halls avv'ay ; 

But beneath their mystic rocks. 

In the arms of bold De Vaux. 

Safe the princess lay ; 
Safe and free from magic power, 
Blushing like the I'ose's flower 

Opening to the day ; 
And round the champion's brows were 

bound 
The crown that Druidess had wound, 

Of the greeii laurel-bay. 
And this was what remain'd of all 
The wealth of that enchanted hall. 

The Garland and the Dame : 
But where should Warrior seek the meed, 
Due to high worth for daring deed, 

Except from Love and Fame I ^* 



CONCLUSION. 



My Lucy, when the Maid is won, 

The Minstrel's task, though knows't, is done , 

And to require of b^.d 
That to his dregs the tale should run, 

Were ordinance too hard. 
Our lovers, briefly be it said, 
Wedded as lovers wont to wed, 

When tale or play is o'er ; 
Lived long and blest, loved fend and true. 
And saw a numerous race renew 

The honors that they bore. 
Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays, 
In morning mist or evening maze, 

Along the mountain lone, 
That fairy fortress often mocks 
His gaze upon the castled rocks 

Of the Valley of St. John ; 
But never man since brave Dc Vaux 

The charmed portal won. 
'Tis now a vain illusive show. 
That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow 

Or the fresh breeze hath blown. 



But see, my love, where far below 
Our lingering wheels are moving slow, 

The whiles, up-gazing still. 
Our menials eye our steepy way, 
Marvelling, perchance, what whim can 

stay 
Our steps, when eve is sinking gray, 

On this gigantic hill. 
So think the vulgar — Life and time 
Ring all their joys in one dull chime 

Of luxury and ease; 
And, O ! beside these simple knaves 
How many better born arj slaves 

To such coarse joys as these, — 
Deaci to the nobler sense that rlows 
When Nature's grander scenes unclose ! 
But, Lucy, v.'e will love them yet, 
The mountain's misty coronet, 

The greenwood, and the v/old ; 
And love the more, that of their maze 
Adventure high of other days 

By ancient bards is told, 
Bringing, perchance, like my poor tale, 
Some moral truth in fiction's veil : 
Nor love them less, that o'er the hill 
The evening breeze, as now, comes chill— 

My love shall wrap iicr warm. 
And, fearless of the slippery way. 
While safe she trips the heat'-.v brae, 

Shall hans on Arthur's aim. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



IN SIX CANTOS. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The scene of this ^oetn lies, at fir si, in the Castle of Artornish, on the coast of A r gyle 
thirt ; and y afterwards, in tJie lsla7ids of Skye and Arran, a7id 2tp07i Hie coast of Ayreshire, 
Finally, it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, 
who had bee7t driven otit of Scotland by the English, and the Barofis who adli^r^d to thai 
foreign interest, returned from the Jsla>td of Rachrin, on the coast of Ireland, again ta 
assert his claijns to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are 
of historical celebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, 
as well entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish 
monarchy ; and of Archdeacon Barbour, a correct edition of whose Metf-ical History of 
Robert Bruce will soon, I trust, appear under the care of my leartied friend, tlie Rev. 
Dr. Jamieson. 

Abbotsford, iQth December, 1814. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1S30. 

I COULD hardly have chosen a subject more popular in Scotland, than anything connected 
with the Bruce's history, unless I had attempted that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opmion, 
that a popular, or what is called a taking title, though well qualified to ensure the publishers 
against loss, and clear their shelves of the original impression, is rather apt to be hazardous than 
otherwise to the reputation of the author. He who attempts a subject of distinguished popu- 
larity, has not the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm of his audience ; on the contrary, it is 
already awakened, and glows, it may be, more ardently than that of the author himself. In this 
case, the warmth of the author is inferior to that of the party whom he addresses, who has, 
therefore, little chance of being, in Bayes's phrase, " elevated and sui-prised" by what he has 
thought of with more enthusiasm than the writer. The sense of this risk, joined to the con- 
sciousness of striving against wind and tide, made the task of composing the proposed Poem 
somewhat heavy and hopeless ; but, like the prize-fighter in " As You Like It," I was to wrestle 
ior my reputation, and not neglect any advantage. In a most agreeable pleasure-voyage, wjiich 
1 have tried to commemorate in the Introduction to the new edition rf the *' Pirate, ' I visited, 
in social and friendly company, the coasts and islands of Scotland, and made myself acquainted 
with the localities of which I meant to treat. But this voyage, which was in every other effect 
so delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by one of those strokes cf fate which so often 
mingle themselves with our pleasures. The accomplished and excellent person who had rec- 
ommended to me the subject for " The Lay of the Last Minstrel," and to whom I proposed to 
inscribe what I already suspected might be the close of my poetical labors, was unexpectedly 
removed from the world, which she seemed only to liave visited for purposes of kindness and 
benevolence. It is needless to say how the author's feelings, or the composition cf his trifling 
vpork, were affected by a circumstanoe which occasioned so many tears and so much sorrow. 
True it is, that "The Lord of the Isles " was concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under the 
painful feeling of one who has a task which must be finished, rather than with the ardor of one 
who endeavors to perform that task well. Althoueh the Poem cannot be said to ha\e made a 
favorable impression on the public, the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled the author <o 
retreat from the field with the honors of war. 

In the mean time, what was necessarily to be consir^ercd as a failure, was much reconciled to 
my feelings by the success attendiug my attempt in another species of composilicu. ** Waverley ■" 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



■57 



had, nncler strict incognito, taT<en its flight from the press, just before I set out upon the yoyo.ge 
already mentioned ; it had now made its way to popularity, and the success of that work, and 
the volumes v/hich fohowed, was sufficient to have satisfied a greater appetite for applause than 
i hr.ve at any time possessed.* ^ , 

1 may as v/ell add in this place, that, being much urged by my intimate friend, now un- 
happily no more, William Erskine, (a Scottish judge, by the title of Lord Kinnedder,) I agreed 
to write the little romantic tale called the " Bridal of Triermain ;" but it was on the condition 
that he should make no serious effort to disown the composition, if report should lay; it at his 
door. As he was more than suspected of a'taste for poetry, and as I took care, in several 
places, to mix something which might resemble (as far as was in my power) my friend's feeling 
and manner, the train easily caught, and two large editions were sold. A third being called for. 
Lord Kinnedder became unwilling to aid any longer a deception which was going further than 
he expected or desired, and the real author's name was given. Upon another occasion, I sent 
up another of these trifles, which, like schoolboys' kites, served to show how the wind of 
popular taste was setting. The manner was supposed to be that of a rude minstrel or Scald, in 
opposition to the " Bridal of Trierraain," which was designed to belong rather to the Italian 
school 

This new fugitive piece was called '' Harold the Dauntless ; " and I am still astonished at my 
having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had made so 
famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. INIy ingenious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had 
published, about the same time, a work called the " Poetic Mirror," containing imitations of the 
principal living poets. There was in it a very good imitation of my own style, which bore such 
a resemblance to " Harold the Dauntless," that there was no discovering the original from the 
imitation ; and I believe that many who took the trouble cf thinking upon the subject, v/ere 
rather of opinion that my ingenious friend was the true, and not the fictitious Simon Pure. 
Since this period, which was in the year 1817, the author has not been an intruder on the public 
by any poetical work of importance. 

Ahsotsford, Aprils 1S30. W. S. 



[THE LORD OF THE ISLES, 



CANTO FIRST. 



Autumn departs — but still his mantle's " 

fold 
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,t 
Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with 

gold 
Tweed and his tributaries mingle still ; 
Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the 

rill, 
Yet lingering notes of sylvan music 

swell, 
The deep-toned cushat, and the red-breast 

shrill ; 
And yet some tints of summer splendor 

teU 



* The first edition of Waverley appeared in 
July, 1S14, 

t The Pavilion, the residence of Lord 
Somerville, situated on the Tweed, over against 
Melrose, and in sight of Abbotsford- 
17 



When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's 
western fell. 

Autumn departs — from Gala's field's no 

more 
Come rural sounds our kindred banks to 

cheer ; 
Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts 

it o'er, 
No more the distant reaper's mirth W3 

hear. 
The last blithe shout hath died upon ou« 

ear, 
And harvest-home hath hush'd the clang- 
ing wain, 
On the waste hill no forms of life appear, 
Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal 

train 
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of 

scatter'd grain. 



2S-8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



D3cm'^t thou these saddened scenes have 

pleasure still, 
Lovest thou through Autumn's fading 

realms to stray, 
To see the heath-flower vvithei'd on the 

hill. 
To listen to the wood's expiring lay, 
To note the red leaf shivering on the 

spray, 
To mark the last bright tints the mountain 

stain, 
On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's 

way, 
And moralize on mortal joy and pain ?— 
O 1 if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the 

minstrel strain. 

No ! do not scorn, although its hoarser 

note 
Scarce with the cushat's homely song can 

vie. 
Though faint its beauties as the tints 

remote 
That gleam through mist in autumn's 

evening sky. 
And few as leaves that tremble, sear and 

d.y, 
When wild November hath his bugle 

wound ; 
Nor mock my toll — a lonely gleaner T 
Through fields time-wasted, on sad in 

quest bound. 
Where happier bards of yore have richer 

found. 

So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, 

To a v.'ild tale of Albyn's warrior day ; 

In distant lands, by the rough West 
reproved. 

Still live some relics of the ancient lay. 

For, when on Coolin's hills the lights 
decay, 

With such the Seer of Skye the eve be- 
guiles ; 

'Tis known amidst the pathless wastes of 
Reay 

In Harries known, and in lona's piles. 
Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of 
the Isles. 



•Wake, Maid of Lorn!" the Minstrels 

sung. 
Thy rugged halls, Artoraish I rung,* 



And the dark seas, thy towers that lave, 
Heaved on the beach a softer wave, 
As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep 
The diapason of the Deep. 
Lull'd were the winds of Inninmcrc, 
And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore, 
As if wild woods and waves had pleasure 
In listing to the lovely measure. 
And ne'er to symphony more sv,-ect 
Gave mountain echoes answer meet, 
Since, met from mainland and from isle, 
Ross, Arran, Hay, and Argyle, 
Each minstrel's tributary lay 
Paid homage to the festal day. 
Dull and dishonor'd were the bard, 
Worthless of guerdon and regard, 
Deaf to tlie hope of minstrel fame, 
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim, 
Who on that morn's resistless call 
Were silent in Artornish hall. 



" Wake, Maid of Lorn I " 'twas thus thc3> 

sung, 
And yet more proud the descant rung, 
" Wake, Maid of Lorn I high right is ours, 
To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers ; 
Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy 
But owns the power of minstrelsy. 
In Lettermore the timid deer 
Will pause, the harp's wild cnimc to hear ; 
Rude Heisker's seal through surges dark 
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark ; - 
To list his notes, the eagle proud 
Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach"s cloud ; 
Then let no Maiden's ear disdain 
The summons of the minstrel train. 
But while our harps wild music make, 
Edith of Lorn, awake, awake I 

III 

" O wake, while Dawn, with dev/y sTiine, 
Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine I 
She bids the mottled thrush rejoice 
To mate thy melody of voice ; 
The dew that on the violet lies 
Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes ; 
But, Edith, wake, and all we see 
Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee ! " — ' 
" She comes not yet," gray Ferrand cried; 
" Brethren, let softer spell hz tried, 
Those notes prolong'd, that soothing thema 
Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, 
And whisper, with their silvery tone, 
The hope she loves, yet fears to own." 
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died 
The strciii of iiattcrv and of pride; 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



25 



-1 



More soft, more low, more tender fell 
The lay of love he bade them tell. 

IV. 

** Wake, Maid of Lorn \ the moments fly, 
Vv'hicl^. yet that maiden name allow ; 

Wake, Maiden, wake the hour is nigh 
When l,ove shall claim a plighted vow. 

By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, 
By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, 

We bid thee break the bonds of rest, 

\ And wake thee at the call of Love ! 

" Wake, Edith, wake ! in yonder bay 

Lies many a galley gayly mann'd, 
We hear tlie merry pibrochs play. 

We see the streamers' silken loand. 
What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs 
swell. 

What crest is on these banners wove, 
The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell — 

The riddle must be read by Love." 

V. 

Retired her maiden train among, 
Edith of Lorn received the song, 
But tamed the mmstrers pride had been 
That had her cold demeanor seen ; 
• For not upon her cheek awoke 
The glow ot pride when Flattery spoke, 
Nor could their tenderest numbers bring 
One sigh responsive to the string. 
As vainly had her maidens vied 
In skill to deck the princely bride. 
Her locks, ;'n dark-brown length array'd, 
Cathleen ot Ulne, 'twas thine to braid ; 
Young Eva with meet reverence drew 
On the light foot the silken shoe. 
While on the ankle's slender round 
Those strings of pearl f^r Bertha wound. 
That, bleach':! Lochryan's depths within, 
Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin. 
But Einion, of experience old. 
Had weightiest task — the mantle's fold 
In many an artful plait she tied. 
To show the form it seem'd to hide, 
Till on the floor descending roll'd 
•its waves of crimson blent with gold. 



O ! lives there now so cold a maid, 
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd, 
In beauty's proudest pitch of power. 
And conquest won — the bridal hour— 
With every charm that wins the heart, 
By Nature given, enhanced by Art, 
Could yet the fair reflection view. 
In the bright mirror pictured true, 



And not one dimple on her cheek 
A tell-tale consciousness bespeak ? 
Lives still such maid ? — Fair damsels, say,"^ 
For further vouches not my Liy, 
Save that such lived in Britain's isle. 
When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to smile; 
Vii. ^ 

But Morag, to whose fostering care ^ 

Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair, ', 
Morag, who saw a mother's aid '^ 

By all a daughter's love repaid, r^ 

(Strict was that bond — most kind of all— ^ 
Inviolate in Highland hall) — 
Gray Morag sate a space apart. 
In Edith's eyes to read her heart. 
In vain the attendants' fond appeal 
To Morag's skill, to I\Iorag's zeal ; 
She mark'd her child receive their care, 
Cold as the image sculptured lair, 
(Form of some sainted patroness.) 
Which cloister'd maids combine to dress ; 
She mark'd — and knew her iuirsllng's hear 
In the vain pomp took kttle part. 
Wistful a while she gazed — then press'd 
The maiden to her anxious bre?st 
In finish'd loveliness — and led 
To where a turret's airy head. 
Slender and steep, and battled tound, 
O'erlook'd, dark Mull ! thy miglity Sound, 
Where thwarting tides, witli mingled roar, 
Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. 
VIII. ^ 

" Daughter," she said, "these seas behold. 
Round twice a hundred islands rcli'd, j 

From Hirt, that hears their northern rear, | 
To the green Hay's fertile shore ; 
Or mainland turn, where many a tower 
Owns thy bold brother's feudal jjower, 
Each on its own dark cape reclined. 
And listening to its own wild wind, 
From where Mingarry, sternly pkxed, 
O'erawes the woodland and the waste. 
To where Dunstaffnage hears 
Of Connal with his rocks engag 
Think'st thou, amid this ample 
A single brow but thine has frov.-n'd, 
To sadden this auspicious morn, 
That bids the daughter of high Lorn 
Impledge her spousal faith to wed 
The heir of mighty Scm:rled ! ■* 
Ronald, from many a hero sprung, 
The fair, the valiant, and the young, 
Lord of the Isles, whose lofty name* 
A thousand bards have given to fame, 
The mate of monarchs, and allied 
On equal terms with England's pride.— 



le waste, v 
the raging T 

iging- / 
le round, / 



26o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



from chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot, 
Who Iie-.rs the tale, and triumphs not ? 
The damsel dons her best attire, 
The shepherd lights his beltane fire, 
Joy, joy i each warder's horn hath sung, 
Joy, joy I each matin bell hath rung ; 
The holy priest says grateful mass, 
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass, 
No mountain den holds outcast boor, 
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor, 
But he hath flung his task aside, 
And claim'd this morn for holy-t^de ; 
Yet, empress of this joyful day, 
Edith is sad while all are gay." — 

IX. 
Proud Edith's soul came to her eye. 
Resentment check'd the struggling sigh. 
Her hurrying hand indignant dried 
The burning tears of injured pride — 
*' r>Iorag, forbear ! or lend thy praise 
To swell yon hireling harpers' lays ; 
Make to yon maids thy boast of power, 
That they may waste a wondering hour, 
Telling of banners proudly borne, 
Of pealing bell and bugle-horn. 
Or, theme more dear, of robes of price, 
Crownlets and gauds of rare device. 
But thou, experienced as thou art, 
Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart. 
That, bound in strong affection's chain. 
Looks for return and looks in vain ? 
No ! sum thine Edith's wretched lot 
In these brief words — He loves her not I 

X. 

" Debate it not — too long I strove 

To call his cold observance love, 

All blinded by the league that styled 

Edith of Lorn — while yet a child. 

She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side, — 

The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride. 

Ere yet 1 saw him, while afar 

His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, 

Train'd to believe our fates the same. 

My bosom throbbed when Ronald's name 

Came gracing Fame's heroic tale, 

iLJke perfume on the summer gale. 

What pilgrim sought our halls, nor told 

Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold ? 

Who touch'd the harp to heroes' praise. 

But liis achievements swell'd the lays ? 

Even Morag — not a tale of fame 

Was hers but closed with Ronald's name. 

He came ! and all that had been told 

Of his high worth seem'd poor and cold, 

Tame, lifeless, void of energy, 

Unjust to Ronald and to me ! 



XI. 

"Since then, what thought had Edith's 

heart 
And gave not plighted love its part ! — 
And what requital ? cold delay — 
Excuse that shunn'd the spousal day. — 
It dawns, and Ronald is not here ! — 
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer, 
Or loiters he in secret dell 
To bid some lighter love farewell, 
And swear, that though he may not scorn 
A daughter of the House of Lorn,"^ 
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er. 
Again they meet, to part no more ? " 



— " Hush, daughter, hush ! thy doubts re- 
move, 
More nobly think of Ronald's love. 
Look, where beneath the castle gray 
His fleet unmoor from Aros bay ! 
See'st not each galley's topmast bend, 
As on the yards the sails ascend ? 
Hiding the dark-blue land, they rise 
Like the white clouds on April skies ; 
The shouting vassals man the oais. 
Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores, 
Onward their merry course they keep. 
Through whistling breeze and foaming 

deep. 
And mark the headmost, seaward cast, 
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast, 
As if she veil'd its banner'd pride, 
To greet afar her prince's bride ! 
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed 
His galley mates the flying steed. 
He chides her sloth ! " — Fair Edith sigh'd, 
Blush'd, sadly smiled, and thus replied :— 

xin. 
" Sweet thought, but vain r~No, Moragf 

mark. 
Type of his course, yon lonely bark. 
That oft hath shifted helm and sail, 
To win its way against the gale. 
Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes 
Have view'd by fits the course she tries-. 
Now, though the darkening scud comes on, 
And dawn's fair promises be gone. 
And though the weary crew may see 
Our sheltering haven on their lee, 
Still closer to the rising wind 
They strive her shivering sail to bind. 
Still nearer to the slielves' dread verge 
At every tack their course they urge, 
As if they fear'd Artornish more 
Than adverse wir^iis and breakers' rcr.r. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



261 



XIV. 

Sooth spoke the maid. — Amid the tide 

The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore, 
And shifted oft her stooping side, 
In weary tack fj-om shore to shore. 
Yet en her destined course no more 

She gain'd, of forward way, 
Than what a minstrel may compare 
To the poor meed which peasants share, 

Who toil the livelong day; 
And such the risk her pilot braves, 

That oft, before she wore, 
Her bowsprit kiss'd the broken waves, 
"Where in white foam the ocean raves 

rjpon the shelving shore. 
Yet, to their destined purpose true, 
Undaunted toil'd her hardy crew, 

Ncr look'd where shelter lay, 
'Nor for Artornish Castle drew, 

Ncr steer'd for Aros baj'. 

XV. 

Thus while they strove with wind and seas. 
Borne onward by the willing breeze, 

Lord Ronald's fleet swept by, 
Streamer'd with silk, and trick'dwith gold, 
Mann'd with the noble and the bold. 

Of Island chivah-y. 
Around their pr ws the ocean roars. 
And chafes beneath their thousand oars, 

Yet bears them on their way ; 
So chafes the war horse in his might, 
That fieldward bears some vali?nt knight, 
Champs, till both bit and boss are white. 

But, foaming, must obey. 
On each gay deck they miglit behold 
Lances of steel and crests of gold. 
And Iiauberks with their burnish'd fold. 

That sh.mmer'd fair and free ; 
And eacli proud galley, as slie pass'd, 
To the wild cadence of the blast 

Gave wilder minstrelsy. 
Full many a shrill triumphant note 
Saline and Scallastle bade float 

Their misty shores around ; 
And IMorven's echoes answer'd well. 
And Duart heard the distant swell 

Come down the darksome Sound, 
xvr. 
So bore they on with mirth and pride, 
And if that laboring bark they spied, 

'Twas with such idle eye 
As nobles cast on lowly boor. 
When, toiling in his task obscure, 

They pass him careless by. 
Let them sweep on with heedless eye? ! 
But, had they known what mighty prize 



In that frail vessel lay, 
The famish'd wolf, that prowls the wold, 
Had scatheless pass'd the ungucrded fold, 
Ere, drifting by these galleys bold. 

Unchallenged were her way ! 
And thou. Lord Ronald, sweep thou on. 
With mirth, and pride, and ri'.n'lrel tone ! 
But hadst thou known who sail'd sc nigh. 
Far other glance were In thine eye ! 
Far other flush were on thy brow, 
That, shaded by the bonnet, now 
Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer 
Of bridegroom when the bride is near ! 



Yes, sweep they on ! — We will not leave, 
For them that triumph, those wlio grieve. 

With that armada gay 
Be laughter loud and jocund shout, 
And bards to cheer the \yassail route, 

With tale, romance, and lay ; 
And of wild mirth each clamorous art 
Which, if it cannot cheer the heart, 
May stupefy and stun its smart, 

For one loud busy day. 
Yes, sweep they on ! — But with that skiff 

Abides the minstrel tale. 
Where there was dread of surge and cliff, 
Labor that strained each sinev/ stiff, 

And one sad Maiden's wail. 

XVIII. 

All day with fruitless strife they toi]'^, 
With eve the ebbing currents boii'd 

More fierce from strait and lake ; 
And midway through the channel met 
Conflicting tides that foam and fret. 
And high their mingled lillows jet. 
As spears, that, in the battle set, 

Spring upward as they break. 
Then, too, the lights of eve v/ere past, 
And louder sung the western blast 

On rocks of Inninmore ; 
Rent was the sail, and strain'd the mast; 
.'\nd many a leak was gaping fast. 
And the pale steersman stood aghast, . 

And gave the coriflict o'er. 

XIX. 

'Twas then that One, whose l:fty lock 
"Nor labor duU'd nor terror shook, 

Thus to the Leader spoke ,— 
" Brother, how hopest thou to abide 
The fury of this wilder'd tide. 
Or how avoid the rock's rude side, 

Until the day has broke .'' 
Didst thou not mark the vessel reel, 
With quivering planks, and rroaning kcci_ 

At the last billow's shocJc .' 



262 



SCOTT'S POETICAL V/ORKS- 



Yet hov,' of better counsel tcl], 
Thcvgii here thou see'st poor Isabel 

t?. 'i dcjJ with want and fear ; 
Fcr loc";: ( n sea. or look on land, 
On y fl (.'ark sky — on every hand 

Despair and death are near. 
Fcr h;r alone I grieve, — on me 
D.Mi"'.:r sits light, by land and sea, 

I follow where thou wilt ; 
FiLhcf to bide the tempest's lour, 
Or w . nd to yon unfriendly tower, 
Or r'ish amid their naval power. 
With war-cry wake their wassail-hour, 

And die with hand on hilt." 

XX. 

That c:der Leader' s_ calm reply 

in , t.-ad/ voice was given, 
" 1.1 m-n'j most dark extremity 

Ci I '. uccor dawns from Heaven. 
Ed AT -rd, ir'.ra thou the shatter'd sail, 
The h;Irr be mine, and down the gale 

1-et ( i-.r free course be driven ; 
So s>haU we 'scape the western bay, 
The hostile fleet, the unequal fray, 
So safely hold our vessel's way 

Beneath the Castle wall ; 
For if a hope of safety rest, 
'Tis on the sacred name of guest, 
Who seeks for shelter, storm-distress' d, 

Withm a clneftain's hall. 
If not — it best beseems our worth, 
Our name, our right, our lofty birth, 

By noble hands to fall" 

xxi. 

The helm, to his strong arm consign'd, 
Gave the reef'd sail to meet the wind, 

And on her alter'd way, 
Fierce !x>unding, forward sprimg the ship, 
Like greyhound starting from the slip 

To seize iiis flying prey. 
Awaked before the rushing prow, 
The mimic fires of ocean glow, 

Those lightnings of the wave ; 
W.ld sparkles crest the broken tides, 
And, fiaslr.ng round, the vessel's sides 

V.'itli elvish lustre lave, 
\Vl.ile, far behind, their livid light 
To the dark billows of the night 

A gloomy splendor gave. 
It seems as if old Ocean shakes 
From his dark brow the lucid flakes 

In envious pageantry, 
To match the meteor-light that streaks 

Grim Hecla's midnight sky. 



Nor lack'd they steadier light to keep 
Their course upon the darkeri'd deep ;«-^ 
Artornish, on her frowning sleep 

'Twixt cloud and ocean hung, 
Glanced with a thousand lights of 'Azq, . 
And landward far, and far to sea, 

Her festal radiance flung. 
By that blithe beacon-light they steer'd, 

Whose lustre mingled weil 
With the pale beam that new appear'd, 
As the cold moon her head uprcar'd 

Above the Eastern tell. 

XXIH, 

Thus guided, on their course lliey bore, 
Until they near'd the m.ainland shore, 
When frequent on the hdl:w blast 
Wild shouts of merriment were tast, 
And wind and wave and sea-b.rds, cry 
With wassail sounds in c r.cert vie, 
Like funeral shrieiic T;th reveiry, 

Or like the balt'e-sh ut 
By peasants heard fn. m chffs en nigh, 
When Triump'n, Rage, and Agony, 

Madden the fi;htand r u:e 
Now nearer y:c, thrush mist and stcrnj 
Dim.ly arose the Castle's ''orm, 

And decpen'd shadow made. 
Far IcT.^then'd en m : ina.n beiow, 
Where, dancing -n reflected glow, 

A hifdied tciches piay d, 
Spangling che wave v/.th lights rs vair.J 
As pleasures in this va.e of pain, 

That dazzle as thev f;.c^e. 



Beneath the Cattle's sheiienng lee. 
They staid their course in quiet sea. 
Hewn in the rock, a passage there 
Sought the dark fortress by a stair, 

So straight, so high, so steep, 
With peasant's staff one valiant hand 
Might well the dizzy pass have mann'd, 
'Gainst hundreds aim'd with spear an# 
brand, 

And plunged t'aem in ti;e t'eep. 
His bugle then tiie helm.sman ucund ; 
Loud answer'd every echo round, 

From turret, rock, and bay, 
The postern's hinges crash and groan, 
And soon the warder's cresset shone 
On these rude steps of slippery stone. 

To light the upward way. 
" Thrice welcome, holy Sire ! " he said ; 
" Full long the spousal train have staid. 

And, vex'd at thy delay. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



263 



Fear'd lest, amidst these wilderlng seas, 
The darksome night and freshening lireeze 
Had driven thy bark astraj'." 

XXV. 
" Warder," the younger stranger said, 
" Tliine erring guess some mirtli had made 
/In mirthful hour; but nights Hke these. 
When tlie rough winds wake western seas, 
Lrook not of glee. We crave some aid 
And needful shelter for this maid 

Until the break of day ; 
For, to ourselves, the deck's rude plank 
Is easy as the mossy bank 

That's breath'd upon by May. 
And for our storm- toss'd skiff we seek 
Short shelter in this leeward creek, 
Prompt when the dawn the east shall 
streak 

Again to bear away." — 
Answer'd the Warder, — " In what name 
Assort ye hospitable claim? 

Whence come, or whither bound ? 
Math Erin seen your parting sails.'' 
Or come ye on Norweyan gales ? 
And seek ye England's fertile vales, 

Or Scotland's mountain ground t " — 

XXVI. 
" Warriors — for other title none 
For some brief space we list to own, 
13ound by a vow— warriors are v/e ; 
In strife by land, and storm by sea, 

We have been known to fame ; 
And these brief words have import dear, 
Wiien sounded in a noble ear, 
To liarbor safe, and friendly cheer, 

That gives us rightful claim. 
Grant us the trival boon we seek, 
And we in other realms will speak 

Fair of your courtesy ; 
Deny — and be your niggard Hold 
Scorii'd by the noble and the bold, 
Shuim'd by the pilgrim on the wold, 

And wanderer on the leal " — 

• XXVII. 

"Bold stranger, no — 'gainst claim like 

thine, 
No bolt revolves by hand of mine, 
Though urged in tone that more express'd 
-A. monarch than a suppliant guest. ^ 
Be wliat ye will, Artornish Hall 
On this glad eve is free to all. 
Tiiough ye had drawn a hostile sword 
'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord, 
Or mail upon your shoulders borne, 
To battle with the Loi i J i^iii^ 



Or, outlaw'd, dwelt by greenwood tree 
With the fierce Knight of Ellerslie,* 
Or aided even the murderous strife. 
When Comyn fell beneath the knife 
Of that fell homicide The Bruce, 
This night had been a term of truce. — 
Ho, vassals ! give these guests your care, 
And show the narrow postern stair." 

XXVIII. 

To land these two bold brethren leapt, 
(The weary crew their vessel kept.) 
And, lighted by the torches' flare, 
That seaward flung their smoky glare, 
The younger knight that maiden baj-e 

Half lifeless up the rock ; 
On his strong shoulder lean'd her head, 
And down her long dark tresses shed, 
As the wild vines in tendrils spread, 

Droops from the mountain oak. 
Him follow'd close that elder Lord, 
And in his hand a sheathed sword. 

Such as few arms could wield ; 
But when he boun'd him to such task. 
Well could it cleave the strongest casque, 

And rend the surest shield. 

XXIX. 

The raised portcullis' arch they pass, 
The wicket witla its bars of brass, 

The entrance long and low, 
Flank'd at each turn by loop-holes strait. 
Where bowmen might in ambush wait, 
(If force or fraud should burst the gate,) 

To gall an entering foe. 
But every jealous post of \vard 
Was now defenceless and unbarr'd. 

And all the passage free 
To one low-brow'd and vaulted room, 
Where squire and yeoman, page and 
groom. 

Plied their loud revelry. 

XXX. 

And " Rest ye here," the Warder bade, 
" Till to our Lord your suit is said. — 
And, comrades, gaze not on the maid. 
And on these men who ask our aid. 

As if ye ne'er had seen 
A damsel tired of midnight bark, 
Or wanderers of a moulding stark. 

And bearing martial mien." 
But not for Eachin's reproof 
Would page or vassal stand aloof, 

But crowded on to stare. 
As men of courtesy untaught. 
Till fiery Edward rouglily caught, 

-I ■ 'Mt 

* Sir William Wallace. 



264 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



From one the foremost there, 
His checker'd plaid, and in its shroud, 
To hide her from the vulgar crowd, 

Involved his sister fair. 
His brother, as the clansman bent 
His sullen brow in discontent. 

Made brief and stern excuse ; — 
'• Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall 
Ihut decks thy lord in bridal hall, 

'Twere honor'd by her use." 

XXXI. 

Proad was his tone, but calm ; his eye 

Had that compelling dignity, 

His mien thr.t bearing haught and high, 

Which common spirits fear ! 
Needed nor word nor signal mere, 
Nodj wink, and laughter, i;Il were o'er ; 
Upon each other back they bore, 

And gazed like startled deer. 
But now appear'd the Seneschal, 
Commission'd by his Lord to call 
The strangers to the Baron's hall, 
Where feasted fair and free 
That Island Prince in nuptial tide. 
With Edith there his lovely bride, 
And her bold brother by her side, 
And many a chief, the flower and pride 
Of Western land and sea. 

Here pause we, gentles, for a space ; 
And if our tale hath won your grace, 
Grant us brief patience, and again 
We will renew the minstrel strain. 



CANTO SECOND. 

Fill the bright goblet, spread the fes- 
tive board ! 
Summon the gay, the noble, and the 

fair! 
Through the loud hall in joyous concert 

pour'd. 
Let mil th and music sound the dirge of 

Care 1 
But ask thou not if Happiness be there, 
If the loud laugh disguise convulsive 

throe, 
Or if the brow the heart's true livery 

wear ; 
Lift not the festal mask ! — enough to 

know. 
No scene of mortal life but tesms with 

mortal woe> 



With Deakers' clang, with harpers' lay, 
With all that olden time deem'd gay, 
The Island Chieftain feasted high ; 
But there was in his troubled eye 
A gloomy fire, and on his brow, 
Now sudden flush'd, and faded now, 
Emotions such as draw their birth 
From deeper source than festal mirth. 
By fits he paused, and harper's strain 
And jester's tale went rouTid in vain, 
Or fell but on his idle ear 
Like distant sounds which dreamers hear. 
Then would he rouse him, and employ 
Each art to aid the clamorous joy, 

And call for pledge and lay, 
And, for brief space, of ail the crowd, 
As he was loudest of che loud, 

Seem gayest of the gay. 
in. 
Yet nought amiss the bridal throng 
Mark'd in brief mirth, cr musing long ; 
The vacant brow, the uniistening ear, 
They gave to thoughts of raptures near. 
And his fierce starts of sudden glee 
Seem'd bursts of bridegroom's ecstasy. 
Nor thus alone misjudged the crowd, 
Since lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud, 
And jealous of his honor'd line. 
And that keen knight, De Argentine,* 
(From England sent on errand high, 
The western league more firm to tie,) 
Both deem'd in Ronald's mood to find 
A lover's transport-troubled mind. 
But one sad heart, one tearful eye, 
Pierced deeper through the mystery, 
And watch'd, with agony and fear, 
Her wayward bridegroom's varied cheer. 

IV. 

She watch'd — yet fear'd to meet his glance, 
And he shunn'd hers; — till when by chance 
They met, the point of foeman's lance . 

Had given a milder pang ! 
Beneath the intolerable smart 
He writhed — then sternly mann'd hi» 

heart 
To play his hard but destined part, 

And from the table sprang. 
" Fill me the mighty cup ! " he said, 
" Erst own'd by royrJ Scmerled :9 
Fill it, till on the studded brim 
In burning gold the bubbles swim. 
And every gem of varied shine 
Glow doubly bright in rosy wine ! 

To vou, brave lord, and brother mine, 
Cf Lcrn, this pledge I drink— 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



265 



The union of Our House with thine, 
By this fair bridal-link ! " — 



** Let it pass round ! '' quoth he of Lorn, 
" And in good time that winded horn 

Must of the Abbot tell ; 
The laggard monk is come at last." 
Lord Ronald heard the bugle-blast, 
And on the floor at random cast, 

The untasted goblet fell. 
But when the warder m his ear 
Tells other news, his blither cheer 

Ruturns like sun of May, 
When through a thunder-cloud it beams ! — 
Lord of two hundred isles, he seems 

As glad of brief delay, 
As some poor criminal might feel, 
When, from the gibbet or the wheel. 

Respited for a day. 

VI. 

" Brother of Lorn," with hurried voice 
He said, " and you, fair lords, rejoice ! 

Here, to augment our glee, 
Come wandering knights from travel far, 
Well proved, they say, in strife of war, 

And tempest on the sea. — 
Ho ! give them at your board such place 
As best their presences may grace, 

And bid them welcome free ! 
With solemn step, and silver wand, 
The Seneschal the presence scann'd 
Of these strange guests ; and well he knew 
How to assign their rank its due; 

For thougli the costly furs 
That erst had deck'd their caps were torn, 
And their gay robes were over-worn, 

And soil'd their gilded spurs. 
Yet such a high commanding grace 
Was in their mien and in their face, 
As suited best the princely dais,* 

And royal canopy ; 
. And there he marshall'd them their place, 

First of tliat company. 

VII. 

Then lords and ladies spake aside. 
And angry looks the error chide, 
That gave to guests unnamed, unknown, 
A place so near their prince's throne ; 

But Owen Erraught said, 
*" For forty years a seneschal, 
To marshal guests in bower and hall 

Has been my honor'd trade. 

* Dais — the great hall-table — elevated a step 
or two above the rest of the room. 



Worship and birth to me are known, 
By look, by bearing, and by tone, 
Not by furr'd robe or broiderd zone ; 

And 'gainst an oaken bough 
I'll gage my silver wand of state. 
That these three st»ngers oft have sate 

In higher place than now." — 

VIII. 

'» I, too," the aged Ferrand said, 
" Am qualified by minstrel trade 

Of rank and place to tell ; — 
Mark'd ye the younger stranger's eye. 
My mates, how quick, how keen, how hlgl^ 

How fierce its flashes fell, 
Glancing among the noble rout 
As if to seek the noblest out, 
Because the owner might not brook 
On any save his peers to look ? 

And yet it moves me more. 
That steady, calm, majestic brow. 
With which the elder chief even now 

Scann'd the gay presence o'er. 
Like being of superior kind, 
In whose high-toned impartial mind 
Degrees of mortal rank and state ' 
Seem objects of indifferent weight. 

The lady too — though closely tied 
The mantle veil both face and eye, 

Her motions' grace it could not hide, 
Nor coidd her form's fair symmetry, 

IX. 

Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn 
Lour'd on the haughty front of Lorn. 
From underneath his brows of pride, 
The stranger guests he sternly eyed. 
And whisper' d closely what the car 
Of Argentine alone might hear ; 

Then question'd, high and brief, 
If, in their voyage, aught they knew 
Of the rebellious Scottish crew. 
Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew. 

With Carrick's outlaw'd Chief ! '^ 
And if, their winter's exile o'er, 
They harbor'd still by Ulster's shore, 
Or launch'd their galleys on the main, 
To vex their native land again ? 

X. 
That younger stranger, fierce and high, 
At once confronts the Chieftain's eye 

With look of equal scorn ; — 
" Of rebels have we nought to show ; 
But if of Royal Bruce thou'dst know, 

I warn thee he has sworn. 
Ere thrice three days ehall come and go, 
His banner Scottish v/inds shall blow, 



266 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Despite each mean or mighty foe, 
From PZngkind's every bill and bow, 

To Allaster of Lorn." 
Kindled the mountain Chieftain's ire, 
But Ronald quench'd the rising fire ; 
" Brother, it better suift the time 
To chase the night with Ferrand's rhyme, 
Than wake, 'midst mirth and wine, the jars 
That flow from these unhappy wars." — 
" Content," said Lorn ; and spoke apart 
With Ferrand, master of his art, 

Then whisper'd Argentine, — 
" The lay I named will carry smart 
To these bold strangers' haughty heart. 

If right this guess of mine." 
He ceased, and it was silence all, 
Until the minstrel waked the hall. 



THE BROOCH OF LORN." 

"Whence the brooch of burnmg gold, 
That clasps the Chieftain's mantle-fold, 
Wrought and chased with rare device, 
Studded fair with gems of price, 
On the varied tartans beaming, 
As, through night's pale rainbow gleaming, 
Fainter now, now seen afar, 
Fitful shines the northern star .' 

" Gem! ne'er wrought on Highland mountain, 
Did the fairy of the fountain. 
Or the mermaid of the wave, 
Frame thee m some coral cave? 
Did, in Iceland's darksome mine. 
Dwarfs swart hands thy metal twine? 
Of, mortal-moulded, comest thou here. 
From England's love, or France's fear ? 

XII. 
SONG CONTINUED. 

" No ! — thy splendors nothing tell 
Foreign art or faery spell, 
]\Ioulded thou for monarch's use. 
By the overweenmg Bruce, 
When the royal robe he tied 
O'er a heart of wrath and pride ; 
Thence in triumph wert thou torn, 
By the victor hand of Lorn 1 

" When the gem was won and lost, 
Widely was the war-cry toss'd ! 
Rung aloud Bendourish fell, 
Answer'd Douchart's sounding dell. 
Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum, 
When tiie homicide, o'erconie. 
Hardly 'scaped, with scatlie and scorn. 
Left the pledge witli conquoring Lorn I 



SONG CONCLUDED. 

" Vain was then the Douglas' brand, 
Vain tlie Campbell's vaimted hand, 
Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk, 
Making sure of murder's work : '^ 
Barendown fled fast away, 
Fled the fiery De la Haye," 
When this brooch, triumphant borne, 
Beam'd upon the breast of Lorn. 

" Farthest fied its former Lord, 
Left his men to brand and cord, 
Bloody brand of Highland steel, 
English gibbet, axe, and wheel. 
Let him fly from coast to coast, 
Dogg'd by Comyn's vengeful ghost, 
While his spoils, in triumph worn. 
Long shall grace victorious Lorn ! " 



As glares the tiger on his foes, 

Hemm'd in by hunters, spears, and boxTS, 

And, ere he bounds upon tiie ring, 

Selects the object of his spring, — 

Now on the Bard, now on his Lord, 

So Edward glared and grasp'd his sword — 

But stern his brother bpoke,— " Be still. 

What ! art thou yet 30 wild (.f will, 

After high deeds and sufferings Jong, 

To chafe thee for a menial's song ?— 

Wei! hast thou framed, Old Man, thy sti;a-in% 

To praise the hand that pays thy pains ! 

Vet something might thy song have told 

Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold. 

Who rent their Lord from Bruce's hold, 

As underneath his knee he lay, 

And died to save him in the fray. 

I've heard the Bruce's cloak and clasp 

Was clench'd within tlieir dving grasp. 

What time a hundred foenien more 

Rush'd in, and back the victor bore. 

Long after Lo'rn had left the strife, 

Full glad to 'scape with limb and life.— 

Enough of this— And, Minstrel, hold, 

As minstrel hire, this chain of gold, 

For future lays a fair excuse, 

To speak more nobly of the f>riice." 

XV. 

" Now, by Columba's shrine, I swear. 
And every saint that's buried there, 
'Tis he himself ! " Lorn sternly cries, 
" And for my kinsman's death he die«.* 
As loudly Ronald calls,—'- Forbear J 
Not in my sight while brand i we^tf. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES.' 



26, 



O'ermatclicd by odds, sliall warrior tall, 

Or blood of btranger stain my hall I 

This aiicii.Mit fortress of my race 

Shall be misfortune's resting-place, 

Shelter and shield of the distress'd, 

No slaughter - house for shipwrccK'd 

guest."— 
" Talk not to mc," fierce Lorn replied, 
" Of odds or match !— when Comyn died, 
Three daggers clash'd within his side ! 
Talk not to me of sheltering hall, 
The Church of God saw Comjni fall ! 
On God's own altar streamed his blood. 
While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood 
The ruthless murderer — e'en as now — ■ 
With armed hand and scornful brow ! — 
Up, all who love mc 1 blow on blow 1 
And lay the outlaw'd felons low ! " 

XVI. 

Then up sprang many a mahiland Lord, 
Obedient to their Chieftain's word. 
Barcaldine's arm is high in air. 
And Kinloch-Alline's blade is bare, 
Black Murthok's dirk has left its sheath. 
And clench'd is Dermid's hand of death. 
Their muttcr'd threats of vengeance swell 
Into a wild and warlike yell ; 
Onward they press with weapons high, 
The affrighted females shriek and fly. 
And, Scotland, then thy brightest ray 
Had darken'd ere its noon of day, — 
But every chief of birth and fame. 
That from the Isles of Ocean came, 
At Ronald's side that hour withstood 
Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for blood. 
XVII. 

Brave Torquil from Dunvegan high. 

Lord of tlie misty hills of Skyc, 

Mac-Niel, wild Bara's ancient thane, 

Duart, of bold Clan-Gillian's strain, 

Fergus, of Canna's castled bay, 

Mac-Duffith, Lord of Colonsay, 

Soon as they saw the broadswords glance, 

With ready weapons rose at once, 

More prompt, that many an ancient feud, 

Full oft supprcss'd, full oft rcnew'd, 

Glow'd 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle, 

And many a lord of ocean's isle. 

Wild was the scene — each sword was bare. 

Back stream'd each chieftain's shaggy hair, 

In gloomy opposition set, 

Eyes, hands, and brandish'd weapons met ; 

Blue gleaming o'er the social board, 

Flash'd to the torches many a sword ; 

And soon those bridal lights may shine 

On purple blood for rosy wine. 



XVIII. "s 

While thus for blows and dealn preparecr,^' 
Each heart was up, each weapon bared^ .' 
Each foot advanced, — a surly pavis? - 
Still reverenced hospitable laws. ' 
All menaced violence, but alike * 
Reluctant each the first to strike, 
(For aye accursed in minstrel line 
Is he who brav.-ls 'mid gong and winc,_, 
And, match'd in numbers and in might, 
Doubtful and desperate seem'd the fight. 
Thus threat and u'.urmur died away, 
Till on the crowded hall there lay 
Such silence, as the deadly still, 
Ere bursts the thunder on the hill. 
With blade advanced, each chieftain bold 
Show'd like the Sworder's form of olcL 
As wanting still the torch of life, 
To wake the marble into strife. 



That awful pause the stranger-maid, 
And Edith, seized to pray for aid. 
As to De Argentine she clung, 
Away her veil the stranger flung, 
And, lovely 'mid her wild despair, 
Fast stream'd her eyes, wide flow'd her ha!r. 
" O thou, of knighthood once the flower, 
Sure refuge in distressful hour. 
Thou, who in Judah well hast fought 
For our dear faith, and oft ha^t sought 
Renown in knightly exercise. 
When this poor hand has dealt the prize. 
Say, can thy soul of honor brook 
On the unequal strife to look. 
When, butcher'd thus in peaceful hall, 
Those once thy friends, my brethren, fall ! " 
To Argentine she turn'd her word, 
But her eye sought the Island Lord. 
A flush like evening's setting flame 
Glow'd on his cheek ; his hardy frame, 
As with a brief convulsion, shook : 
With hurried voice and eager look, — 
" Fear not," he said, '• my Isabel ! 
•What said I— Edith !— all is well- 
Nay, fear not — I will well provide 
Tiie safety of my lovely bride — 
My bride? " but there the accents clung 
In tremor to his faltering tonsue. 



Now rose De Argentine, to claim 
The prisoners m his sovereign's name. 
To England's crown, who, vassals sworn 
'Gainst tiieir liege lord had v/capon born 
(Such speech, I ween, was but to hide 
His care their safety to provide : 



268 



scorrs poetical works. 



For knight more true in thought and deed 
Than Argentine ne'er spurrxl a steed) — 
And Ronald, %vho liis meaning guess'd, 
Seem'd half to sanction the request. 
This purpose fiery Torquil broke : — 
" Somewhat we've heard of England's 

yoke," 
He said, " and, in our islands, Fame 
Hath whisper'd of a lawful claim, 
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's Lord, 
Though dispossess'd by foreign sword. 
This craves reflection — but though right 
And just the charge of England's Knight, 
Let England's crown her rebels seize 
Where she has power ; — in towers like these, 
'Midst Scottish Chieftains summon'd here 
To bridal mnth and bridal cheer, 
Be sure with no consent of mine, 
Shall either Lorn or Argentine 
With chains or violence, in our sight. 
Oppress a brave and bamsh'd Knight." 

XXI. 

Then waked the wild debate agam, 
With brawling threat and clamor vain. 
Vassals and menials, thronging in, 
Lent their brute rage to swell the din ; 
When, far and wide, a bugle-clang 
From the darlc ocean upward rang. 

" The Abbot comes ! " they cry at once, 

*' The holy man, whose favor'd glance 
Hath sainted visions known , 

Angels have met him on the way, 

Beside the blessed martyrs' bay, 
And by Columba's stone. 

His monks have heard their hymnings 
high 

Sound from the summit of Dun-Y, 

To cheer his penance lone, 

When at each cross, on girth and wold, 

(Their number thrice a hundred-fold,) 

His prayer he made, his beads he told, 

With Aves many a one — 
He comes our feuds to reconcile, 
A sainted man from sainted isle ; 
We will his holy doom abide, 
The Abbot shall our strife decide." 

XXII. 

Scarcely this fair accord was o'er, 
When through the wide revolving door 

The black-stoled brethren wind ; 
Twelve sandall'd monks, who relics bor« 
With many a torcli-bearer before, 

And many a cross behind, 
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand, 
And dagger bright and flashing brand 



Dropp'd swiftly at the sight ; 
They vanish' d from the Churchman's eye, 
As shooting stars, that glance and die. 

Dart from the vault ot" night. 

XXIIl. 

The Abbot on the threshold stood, 
And in his hand the holy rood ; 
Back on his shoulders flow'd his hood, 

The torch's glaring ray 
Shov.''d, in its red and flashing light, 
His wither' d cheek and amice white, 
His blue eye glistening cold and bright, 

His tresses scant and gray. 
" Fair Lords," he said, " Our Lady's love, 
And peace be with you from above. 

And Benedicite ! 
— But what means this ? no peace is here !— 
Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer? 

Or are these naked brands 
A seemly show for Churchman's sight. 
When he comes summon'd to unite 

Betrothed hearts and hands 1 " 

XXIV. 

I Then, cloaking hate with fien' zeal, 
j Proud Lom first answer'd the appeal ;— 
; " Thou comest, O holy Man, 
j True sons of blessed Church to greet, 
j But little deeming here to meet 
A wretch, beneath the ban 
Of Pope and Church, for murder done 
; Even on the sacred altar-stone ! — 
j Well mayest thou wonder we should kriow 
! Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, 
■ Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce, 
I With excommunicated Bruce ! 
Yet well I grant, to end debate, 
Thy sainted voice decide his fate." 

XXV. 

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause, 

And knighthood's oath and honor's laws ; 

And Isabel, on bended knee, 

Brought pray'rs and tears to back her pleaj 

And Edith lent her generous aid. 

And wept, and Lorn for mercy pray'd. 

" Hence," he exclaim'd, " degenerate maidi 

Was't not enough to Ronald's bower 

I brought thee, like a paramour.*-* 

Or bond-maid at her master's gate. 

His careless cold approach to wait ?— 

But the bold Lord of Cumberland, 

The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand ; 

His ii shall be — Nay, no reply ! 

Hence ! till those rebel eyes be dry." 

With grief the Abbot heard and saw. 

Yet nought relax 'd his brow of awe. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



26t 



Then Argentine, in England's name. 
So highly urged his sovereign's claim, 
He waked a spark, that long suppress'd. 
Had smoulder'd in Lord Ronald's breast ; 
And now, as from the flint the fire, 
Flash'd forth at once his generous ire. 
" Enough of noble blood," he said, 
" By English Edward had been shed, 
Since matchless Wallace first had been 
In mock'ry crown'd with wreaths of green, ^5 
And done to death by felon hand, 
For guarding well his father's land. 
Where's Nigel Bruce ? and De la Haye, 
And valiant Seton — where are they i* 
Where Somerville, the kmd and free ? 
And Eraser, flower of chivalry? 
Have they not been on gibbet bound, 
Their quarters flung to hawk and hound, 
And hold we here a cold debate. 
To yield niore victims to their fa^e ? 
What ! can the English Leopard's mood 
Never be gorged with northern blood ? 
Was not the life of Athole shed. 
To soothe the tj'rant's sicken'd bed ? '^ 
And must his word, till dying day, 
Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay! — 
Thou frown'st, De Argentine, — My gage 
Is prompt to prove the strife I wage.'' — 

XXVIl. 

" Nor deem," said stout Dunvegan's knight, 
" That thou shalt brave alone the fight ! 
By saints of isle and mainland both, 
By Woden wild, (my grandsire's oath.) * 
Let Rome and England do their worst, 
Howe'er attainted or accursed. 
If Bruce shall e'er find friends again, 
Once more to brave a battle-plain, 
If Douglas couch again his lance. 
Or Randolph dare another chance, 
Old Torquil will not be to lack 
With twice a thousand at his back. — 
Xay, chafe not at my bearing bold. 
Good Abbot! for thou know'st of old, 
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will 
Smack of the wild Norwegian still : 
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause 
For England'j wealth, or Rome's ap- 
plause." 



• The Macleods were of Scandinavian de- 
-:cent— the ancient worshippers of Thor and 
Woden. 



XXVIII. 

The Abbot seem'd with eye severe 

The hardy Chieftain's speech to hear ; 

Then on King Robert turn'd the Monk, 

But twice his courage came and sunk, 

Confronted with the hero's look ; 

Twice fell his eye, his accents shook ; 

At length, resolved in tone and brow. 

Sternly he question'd him — " And thou, 

Unhappy ! what hast thou to plead, 

Why I denounce not on thy deed' 

That awful doom which canons tell 

Shuts paradise, and opens hell ? 

Anathema of power so dread. 

It blends the living with the dead, 

Bids each good angel soar away, 

And every ill one claim his prey : 

Expels thee from the Church's care, 

And deafens Heaven r.gainst thy prayer; 

Arms every hand against thy life. 

Bans all who aid thee in the strife, 

Nay, each whose succor, cold and scant, 

With meanest alms relieves thy want : 

Haunts thee while living, — and, when dp^(5. 

Dwells on thy yet devoted head, 

Rends Honor's scutcheon from thy hearse, 

Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse, 

thy corpse from hallow' d 



And spurns 
I ground, 

! Flung like vile carrion to the hound ; 
' Such is the dire and desperate doom 
1 For sacrilege, decreed by Rome ; 
j And such the well-deserved meed 

Of thine unhallow'd, ruthless deed." 



'* Abbot! " the Bruce replied, " thy charge 

It boots not to dispute at large. 

This much, howe'er, I bid tliee know, 

No selfish vengeance dealt tht- blow, 

For Comyn died his country's foe. 

Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed 

Fulfill'd my soon-repented deed. 

Nor censure those from whose stern tongut 

The dire anathema has rung. 

I only blame mine own wild ire, 

By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire. 

Heaven knows my purpose to atone, 

Far as I may, the evil done, 

And hears a penitent's appeal 

From papal curse and prelate's zeal. 

My first and dearest task acliieved, 

Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved. 

Shall many a priest in cope and stole 

Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul, 



270 



SCOTT S POETICAL IVOR A'. 



V/Mle I the blessed cross advance, 

And expiate this unhappy chance 

In Palestine, with sword and lance. ^^ 

But, while content the church should know 

My conscience owns the debt I owe 

Unto De Araientine and Lorn 

The name of traitor 1 return, 

Bid them defiance stern and high, 

And give tiiem in their throats the lie ! 

These brief words spol<e. I speak no more. 

Do what thou wilt ; niy shrift is o'er." 



Like man by prodigy amazed, 
Upon the King the Abbot gazed; 
Then o'er his pallid features glance 
Convulsions of ecstatic trance. 
His breathing came more thick and fast. 
And from his pale blue eyes were cast 
Strange rays of wild and wandering light 
Uprise his locks of silver white, 
Flush'd is his brow, through every vein 
In azure tide the currents strain. 
And undistinguish'd accents broke 
The awful silence erje he spoke. 

XXXI 

" De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread 

To speak my curse upon thy head,^^ 

And give thee as an outcast o'er 

To him who burns to shed thy gore; 

But, like the Midianite of old. 

Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controH'd, 

I feel within mine aged breast 

A power that will not be repress'd 

It prompts my voice, it swells my veins, 

It burns, it maddens, it constrains i~> 

Dc Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow 

Hath at God's altar slain thy foe : 

O'ermaster'd yet by high behest, 

I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd!" 

He spoke, and o'er the astonish'd throng 

Was silence, awful, deep, and long. 

XXXII. 

Again that light has fired his eye, 
Again his form swells bold and high, 
The broken voice of age is gone, 
'Tis vigorous manhood's lofty tone : 
" Thrice vanquish'd on the battle-plain. 
Thy followers slaughtL-r'd, fled, or ta'en, 
A hunted wanderer on the wild, 
On foreign sliorcs a man exiled, '9 
Disown'd, deserted, and distressed, 
I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd 1 
I51ess'd in t!ie hall and in the field, 
Under the mantle as the shield. 



Avenger of thy country's shame, 

Restorer of her injured fame, 

Bless'd in thy sceptre and thy sword, 

De Bruce, fair Scotland's righttul Lord, 

Bless'd in thy deeds and in thy fame. 

What lengthen'd honors wait thy name I 

In distant ages, sire to son 

Shall tell thy talt of freedom won. 

And teach his infants, in the use 

Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce. 

Go, the;., truunphant! sueep along 

Thy course, the theme of many a song ! 

The Power, whose dictates swell my breast, 

Hath bless'd thee, and thou shalt be 

bless'd !— 
Enough — my shortlived strength decays, 
And sinks the momentary blaze. — 
Heaven hath our destined purpose broke, 
Not here must nuptial vow be spoke ; 
Brethren, our errand here is o'er, 
Our task discharged. — Unmoor, unmoo'"!" 
His prieste received the exhausted Monk, 
As breathless in their arms he sunk, 
Punctual his orders to obey. 
The train refused. all longer stay, 
Embark'd, raised sail, and bore away. 



CANTO THIRD. 



Hast thou not mark'd, when o^er thy 

startled head 
Sudden and deep the tluinder-peal has 

roll'd, 
Hov/, when its echoes fell, a silence 

dead 
Sunk on the the wood, the meadow, and 

the wold ? 
The rye-grass shakes not on the sod- 
built 'fold. 
The rustling aspen's leaves are mute 

and still, 
The wall-flower waves not on the ruin' 

hold, 
Till, murmuring distant first, then near 

and shrill. 
The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps 

the groaning hill. 

II. 

Artornish ! such a silence sunk 
Upon thy halls, v/hcn tliat gray Monk 

His propi'et speech iir.cl spoke; 
And his obedient brethren's sail 
Was stretch'd to meet tlic southern g?Je 

Before a v^'hisper woke. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



271 



Then murmuring sounds of doul)t and fear, 
Close pour'd m many an anxious ear, 

The solemn stillness broke ; 
And still they gazed with eager guess, 
Where, in an oriel's deep recess, 
The Island Pnnce seem'd bent to press 
What Lorn, by his impatient cheer, 
And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear. 



Starting at length, with frowning look. 
His hand he clench'd, his head he shook. 

And sternly flung apart ; — 
*' And deem'st thou me so mean of mood. 
As to forget the mortal feud, 
And clasp the hand with blood imbrued 

From my dear Kinsman's heart ' 
Is this thy rede?— a due return 
For ancient league and friendship sworn ! 
But well our mountain proverb shows 
The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows. 
Be it even so — believe, ere long, 
He that now bears shall wreak the wrong.— 
Call Edith— call the Maid of Lorn ! 
My sister, slaves ! — for further scorn, 
Be sure nor she nor I will stay. — , 
Away, De Argentine, away ! — 
We nor ally nor brother knov/, 
In Bruce's friend, or England's foe. " 

IV. 

But who the Chieftain's rage can tell, 
When, sought from lowest dungeon cell 
To highest tower the castle round, 
No Lady Edith was there found 1 
He shouted, " Falsehood ! — treachery ! — 
Revenge and blood ! — a lordly meed 
To him tliat wdl avenge the deed ! 
A Baron's lands ! " — His frantic mood 
Was scarcely by the news withstood, 
That Morag shared his sister's flight, 
And that, m hurry of the night, 
'Scaped noteless, and without remark, 
Two strangers sought the Abbot's bark.— 
" Man every galley ! — fly — pursue ! 
The priest his treachery shall rue ! 
Ay, and the time shall quickly come. 
Wlien we shall hear the thanks thav Rome 
Will pay his feigned prophecy ! " 
Such v.as fierce Lorn's indignant cry ; 
And Cormac Doil in haste obcy'd, 
Hoisted his sail, his anchor weigh'd, 
(For, glad of each pretext for spoil, 
A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil.) 
BuL others, lingering, spoke apart, — 
" The Maid has given her maiden heart 
To Ronald of the Isles, 



And, fearful lest her brother's word 
Bestow her on that English Lord, 

She seeks Icna's piles. 
And wisely deems it best to dwell 
A votaress in the holy cell. 
Until these feuds so fierce and fcH 

The Abbot reconciles.'' 

V. 

j As, impotent of ire, the hall 
I Echo'd to Lorn's impatient call, 
! " My horse, my mantle, and my train ! 
i Let none wlio honors Lorn remain ! "-* 
j Courteous, out stern, a bold request 
I To Bruce De Argentine cxpress'd. 
I " Lord Earl," he said, — " i cannot chuse 
I But yield such title to the Bruce, 
i Though name and earldom both are gone, 
I Since he braced rebel's armor on — 
j But, Earl or Serf — rude phrase was thine 
Of late, and launch'd at Argentine; 
Such as compels me to demand 
Redress of honor at thy hand. 
We need not to each other tell. 
That both can wield their v^eapons well ; 
Then do me but the soldier grace. 
This glove upon thy helm to place 

Where we may meet in fight ; 
And I will say, as still I've said. 
Though by ambition far misled. 
Thou art a noble knight.'' — 

VI. 

" And I,'' the princely Bruce replied, 
" Might term it stain on knighthood's pride 
That the bright sword of Argentine 
Should m a t\Tant's quarrel shine ; 

But, for your brave request, 
Be sure the honor'd ]iledr;e you gave 
In every battle-field shall wave 

Upon my helmet-crest ; 
Believe, that if my hasty tongue 
Hath done thine honor causeless wrong, 

It shall be well redress'd. 
Not dearer to my soul was glove, 
Bestow'd in youth by lady's love. 

Than this which thou hast given I 
Thus, then, my noble foe I greet ; 
Health and high fortune till we meet, 

And then — what pleases Heaven.'' 
vn. 
Thus parted they — for now, with sound 
Like waves roll'd back from rocky ground, 

The friends of Lorn retire ; 
Each mainland chieftain, with his train, 
Draws to his mountain towers again, 
Pondering how mortal sclieiues prove vidn^ 

And mortal hopes expire. 



272 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But throus;h the castle clcble guard, 
By Ronald's charge, kept wakeful ward, 
Wicket and gate were trebly barr'd, 

By beam and bolt and chain ; 
Then ot the guests, in courteous sort, 
He pray'd excuse fo'" mirth broke sliort, 
And bade them m Artornish fort 

In confidence remain. 
'Now torch and menial tendance led 
Chieftain and knight to bower and bed, 
And beads were told, and Aves said, 

And soon they sunk away 
Into such sleep, as wont to shed 
Oblivion on the weary head, 

After a toilsome day. 



But soon- uprcused, the Monarch cried 
To Edward slumbering by his side, 

" Awake, or sleep for aye I 
Even now there jarr'd a secret door — 
A taper-light gleams on the floor — 

Up, Edward, up, I say ! 
Some one glides in like midnight ghost — 
Nay, strike not ! 'tis cur noble Host." 
Advancing then his taper's flame, 
Ronald stept forth, and with him came 

Dunvegan's chief — each bent the knee 

To Bruce in sign of fealty. 
And proffer'ci him his sword, 

And hail'd him in a monarch's style, 

As king of mainland and of isle, 
And Scotland's rightful lord. 
"And O," said Roland, " Own'd of 

Heaven ! 
Say, is my erring youth forgiven, 
By falsehood's arts from duty driven. 

Who rebel falchion drew, 
Yet ever to thy deeds of fame, 
Ev;n while I strove against thy claim. 

Paid homage just and true ? " — 
•' Alas ! dear youth, the unhappy time," 
Answer'd the Bruce, " must bear the 
crime, 

Since, guiltier far than you, 
Even 1 " — he paused ; for Falkirk's woes 
Upon his conscious soul arose. ^° 
The Chieftain to his 'oreast he press'd, 
And in a sigh conceal'd the rest. 



They \ offer'd aid, by arms and might, 
To repossess hin in his right ; 
IV.it well their counsels must be weigh'd, 
Ere banners raised and musters made. 
For English hire and Lorn's intrigues 
Bound many chiets in southern leagues. 



In answer, Bruce his purpose held 

To his new vassals frankly told. 

" The wmter w;jrn in exile o'er, 

I long'd for Carrick's kindred shore, 

I thought upon my native Ayr, 

And long'd to see tb.e burly fare 

That Clifford makes, miose lordly ca!l 

Now echoes through my lather's liall. 

But first my course to Arrr.n led, 

Where valiant Lennox gathers head, 

And on the sea, by tempest toss'd. 

Our barks dispersed, our purpose cross'd, 

iVIine own, a hostile sail to shun, 

Far from her destined course had run, 

When that wise will, which masters ours, 

Compell'd us to your friendly towers." 



Then Torquil spoke.: — "The time craves 

speed 1 
We must not linger in our deed, 
But instant pray our Sovereign Liege, 
To shun the perils of a siege. 
The venge-ful Lorn, with all his powers, 
Lies but too near Artornish towers, 
And England's light-arm'd vessels ride, 
Not distant far, the waves of Clyde, 
Prompt at these tidings to unmoor. 
And sweep each strait, and guard each 

shore. 
Then, till this fresh alarm pass by, 
Secret and safe my Liege must lie 
In the far bounds of friendly Skye, 
Torquil thy pilot and thy guide." — 
" Not so, brave Chieftain," Ronald cried ; 
" Myself will on my Sovereign wait, 
And raise in arms the men of Sleate, 
Whilst thou, renown'd where chiefs deoate, 
Shalt sway their souls by counsel sage, 
And awe thein by thy locks of age." 
— " And if my words in weight shall fail. 
This ponderous sword shall turn the scale.'* 



— "The scheme," said Bruce, "contents 

me well ; 
Meantime, 'twere best that Isabel, 
For safety, with my bark and crew, 
Again to friendly Erin drew. 
There Edward, too, shall with her wend, 
In need to cheer her and defend, 
And muster up each scatter'd friend,''— 
Here seem'd it as Lord Roland's ear 
Would other counsel gladiier hear ; 
But, all achieved as soon as plann'd, 
Both barks, in secret arm'd and mann'd, 
From out the haven bore ; 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



273 



On different voyage forth they ply, 
This for the coast of winged Skye, 
And tliat for Erin's shore. 

XII. 

With Bruce and Roland bides the tale.— 
To favoring v/inds they gave the sail, 
Till Mull's dark headlands scarce they knew, 
And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue. 
But then the squalls blew close and hard, 
And, fain to strike the galley's yard, 

And take them to the oar, 
With these rude seas in weary plight, 
They sl^-ove the livelong day and night, 
Nor till the dawning had a sight 

Of Skye's romantic shore. 
Where Coolin stoops him to the west, 
They saw upon his shiver'd crest 

The sun's arising gleam , 
But such the labor and delay, 
Ere they were moor'd in Scavigh bay, 
(For calmer heaven compell'd to stay,) 

He shot a western beam. 
Then Ronald said, " If true mine eye. 
These are the savage wilds that lie 
North of Strathnardill and Dunskye ; ^' 

No human foot comes here, 
And, since these adverse breezes blow, 
If my good Liege love hunter's bow. 
What hinders that on land we go, 

And strike a mountain-deer ? 
Allan, my page, shall with us wend ; 
A bow full deftly can he bend, 
And, if we meet a herd, may send 

A shaft shall mend our cheer." 
Then each took bow and bolts in hand. 
Their row-boat launch'd and leapt to land. 

And left their skiff and train. 
Where a wild stream, with headlong shock, 
Came brawling down its bed of rock. 

To minele with the main. 



A while their route they silent made, 

As men who stalk for mountain-deer. 
Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, 

" St. Mary 1 what a scene is here i — 
I've traversed many a mountain-strand. 

Abroad and in my native land, 
A.nd it has been my lot to tread 
Where safety more than pleasure led ; 
Thus, many a waste I've wander'd o'er, 
Clombe many a crag, cross'd many a moor, 

But, by my halidome, 
A scene so rude, so wild as this, 
Yet so sublime in barrenness, 



e'er did my wandering footsteps press, 
Where'er I happ'd to roam," 



XIV. 

No marvel thus the Monarch spake ; 

For rarely human eye has known 
A scene so stern as that dread lake^ 

With its dark ledge of barren stone. 
Seems that primeval earthquake's sway 
Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way 

Through the rude bosom of the hill. 
And that each naked precipice. 
Sable ravine, and dark abyss 

Tells of the outrage still 
The wildest glen, but this, can show 
Some touch of Nature's genial glov/ ; 
On high Benmore green mosses grow^ 
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 

And copse on Cruchan-Ben ; 
But here, — above, around, below, 

On mountain or in glcu, 
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, 
Nor augtit of vegetative power, 

The weary eye may ken. 
For all IS rocks at random thrown, 
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone : 

As if were here denied 
The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew. 
That clothe with many a varied hue 

The bleakest mountain-side. 

XV. 

And wilder, forward as they wound. 
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. 
Huge terraces of granite black 
Afforded rude and cumber'd track ; 

For from the mountain hoar, 
Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear. 
When yell'd the wolf and fled the deer, 

Loose crags had toppled o'er ; 
And some, chance-poised and balanced, la 
So that a stripling arm might sway 

A mass no host cofild raise. 
In Nature's rage at random thrown, 
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone 

On its precarious base. 
The evening mists, with ceaseless change, 
Now clothed the mountains' lofty range.^ 

Now left their foreheads bare. 
And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, 
Or on the sable waters curl'd, 
Or on the eddying breezes whirl d, 

Dispersed in middle air. 
And oft, condensed, at once they lower, 
Wh.en, brief and fierce, the mountain showei 



274 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Pours like a torrent down, 
And when return the sun's glad beams, 
Wliiten'd with foam a thousand streams 

Leap from the mountain's crown. 

XVI. 
''This lake," said Bruce, "whose barriers 

dreat 
Are precipices sharp and sheer, 
Yielding no track for goat cr deer, 

Save the black slielves we tread. 
How term you its dark waves ? and how 
Yon northern mountain's pathless brow, 

And yonder peak of dread. 
That to the evening sun uplifts 
The grisly gulfs and slaty rifts, 

Which seem its shiver'd head ? " — 
"Coriskin call the dark lake's name, 
Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim. 
From old Cuchullin, chief of fame. 
But bards, familiar in our isles 
Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles, 
Full oft their careless humors please 
By sportive names from scenes likethese. 
I v.'ould old Torquil were to show 
His maidens with tlieir breasts of snow, 
Or that my noble Liege were nigh 
To hear his Nurse sing lullaby 1 
(The Maids — tall cliffs with breakers white. 
The Nurse — a torrent's roaring might,) 
Or that your eye could see the mood 
Of Corryvrckin's whirlpool rude, 
When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood— 
'Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames, 
For scenes so stern, fantastic names." 

XVII. 

Answer'd the Bruce, " And musing mind 

Might here a graver moral find. 

These mighty cliffs, that heave on high 

Their naked brows to middle sky, 

Ind.fferent to the sun or snow, 

Wh:,e nought can fade, and nought can 

b'ow, 
May tney not mark a Monarch's fate, — 
Raised high 'mid storms of strife and state, 
Beyond life's lowlier pleasures placed, 
His soul a rock, his heart a waste ? 
O'er hope and Icve and fear aloft 
High rears his crowned head — But soft ! 
Look, underneath yon jutting crag 
Are hunters and a slaughter'd stag. 
Who may they be ? But late you snid 
No steps these desert regions tread." — 

XVIII. 
** So said I— and believed in sooth," 
Ronald replied " I spoke the truth. 



Yet now I spy, by yonder stone. 

Five men — they mark us, and come on ; 

And by their badge on bonnet borne, 

1 guess them of the land of Lorn, 

Foes to my Liege." — " So let it be ; 

I've faced worse odds than five to three— 

— But the poor page can little aid ; 

Then be our battle thus array'd. 

If our free passage they contest ; 

Cope thou witli two, I'll match the rest." — 

" Not so, my Liege — for, by my life, 

This sword shall meet the treble strife ; 

My strength, my skill in arms, more small. 

And less the loss should Ronald fal^ 

But islemen soon to soldiers gruw, 

Allan has sv/ord as well as bow, 

And v/cre my Monarch's order given, 

Two , shafts should make our number 

even." — 
" No ! not to save my life 1 '' he said ; 
" Enough of blood rest* on my h.cad, 
Too rashly spill'd — we soon shall know. 
Whether they come as friend or foe." 



Nigh came the strangers, and more nigh ;-— 
Still less they pleased the Monarch's eye. 
Men were they all of evil mien, 
Down-look'd, unwilling to be seen ; 
They moved with half-resolved pace. 
And bent on earth each gloomy face. 
The foremost two were fair array'd. 
With brogue and bonnet, trews and plaid, 
And bore the arms of niountaineers, 
Daggers and b.-oadswords, bows and spearS; 
The^hree, that lagg'd small space behind, 
Seem'd serfs of more degraded kind ; 
Goat-skins or d:er-hidcs o'er them cast. 
Made a rude fence against the blast ; 
Their arms and feet and heads were bare. 
Matted their beards, unshorn their hair ; 
For arms, the catiffs bore in har.d, 
A club, an axe, a rustv brand. 



Onward, still mute, they kept the track ;— 
" Tell who ye be, or else stand back," 
Said Bruce ; " Jn deserts when they meet, 
Men pass not as in peaceful street." 
Still, at his stern command, they stood, 
And proffer'd greeting brief and rude, 
Bat acted courtesy so ill. 
As seem'd of fear, and net of will. 
" Wanderers we are, as you may be ; 
Men hither driven by wind and sea, 
Who, if you list to taste our cheer, 
Will share with you this fallow deer."— 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



27s 



** Ir from the sea, where lies your bark ? " — 

« Ten fathom deep in ocean dark ! 

Wreck'd yesternight : but we are men, 

Who httle sense of peril ken. 

The shades come down— the day is shut — 

Will you go with us to our hut ? " — 

" Our vessel waits us in the bay ; 

Thanks for your proffer — have good- 
day." — 

" Was that your galley, then, which rode 

Not far from shore when evening glov/'d ? " — 

"It was." — "Then spare your needless 
pain, 

There will she now be sought in vain. 

We saw her from the mountain-head, 

When, with St. George's blazon red, 

A southern vessel bcre in sight. 

And yours raised sail, and took to flight.'' — 

XXI. 

" Now, by the rood, unwelcome news ! " 
Thus with Lord Ronald communed Bruce; 
" Nor rests there hght enough to show 
If this their tale be true or no. 
The men seem bred of churlish kind, 
Yet mellow nuts have hardest rind ; 
We will go with them — food and fire 
And sheltering roof our wants require. 
Sure guard 'gainst treachery will we keep, 
And watch by turns our comrades' sleep. — 
Good fellows, thanks ; your guests we'll be. 
And well will pay the courtesy. 
Come, lead us where your lodging lies,— 
— Nay, soft, we mix not companies. — 
Show us the path o'er crag and stone, 
And we will follow you ; — lead on.'' 

xxir. 
They reach'd the dreary cabin, made 
Of sails against a rock display'd, 

And there, on entering, found 
A slender boy, whose form and mien 
111 suited with such savage scene. 
In cap and cloak of velvet green, 

Low seated on the ground. 
His garb was such as minstrels wear. 
Dark was his hue, and dark his hair. 
His youthful cheek was marr'd by care. 

His eyes in sorrow drown'd. 
"Whence this poor boy? "—As Ronald 

spoke. 
The voice his trance of anguish broke ; 
As if awaked from ghastly dream. 
He raised his head with start and scream. 

And wildly gazed around ; 
Then to the wall his face he turn'd. 
And his dark neck with blushes bvirnU 



XXIII. 

" Whose is the boy ? " again he said. — 
" By chance of war our captive made ; 
He may be yours, if you should hold 
That music has more charms than gold ; 
For, though from earliest childhood mute. 
The lad can deftly touch the lute,^ 
And on the rote and viol play, 
And well can drive the time away 

For those who love such glee ; 
For me, the favoring breeze, when loud 
It pipes upon the galley's shroud, 
Makes blither melody/' — 
'•' Hath he, then, sense of spoken sound .^ "-« 

" Aye ; so his mother bade us know, 
A crone in our late shipwreck drown'd, 

And hence the silly stripling's woe. 
More of the youth I cannu. say, 
Our captive but since yesterday; 
When wind and weather wax'd so grim, 
We little listed think of him.— 
But why waste time in idle words ? 
Sit to your cheer — unbelt your swords." 
Sudden the captive turn'd his head, 
And one quick glance to Ronald sped. 
It was a keen and warning look, 
And well the Chief the signal took. 

XXIV. 
" Kind host," he said, " our needs require 
A separate board and separate fire ; 
For know, that on a pilgrimage 
Wend I, my comrade, and this page. 
And, sworn to vigil and to fast, 
Long as this hallow'd task shall last, 
We never doff the plaid or sword. 
Or feast us at a stranger's board ; 
And never share one common sleep, 
But one must still his vigil keep. 
Thus, for our separate use, good friend^ 
We'll hold this hut's remoter end.'' — 
" A churlish vow," the eldest said, 
" And hard, methinks, to be obey'd. 
How say you, if, to wreak the scorn 
That pays our kindness harsh return, - 
We should refuse to share our meal ? " 
" Then say we, that our swords are steel I 
And our vow binds us not to fast. 
Where gold or force may buy repast." — 
Their host's dark brow grew keen and fell, 
His teeth are clench'd, his features sweli; 
Yet sunk the felon's moody ire 
Before Lord Ronald's glance of fire, 
Nor could his craven courage brook 
The Monarch's calm and dauntless look. 
With laugh constrain'd, — " Let every man 
Follow the fashion of his clan 1 



fjS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Each to his separate quarters keep, 
And feed or fast, or wake or sleep." 

XXV. 

Their fire at separate distance burns, 
By turns they eat, keep guard by turns ; 
|For evil seem'd that old man's eye, 
Dark and'designing, fierce yet sliy. 
Still he avoided forward look, , 
But slow and circumspectly took 
A circling, never-ceasing glance, 
By doubt and cunning mark'd at once, 
Which shot a mischief-boding ray. 
From under eyebrows shagg'd and gray. 
The younger, too, who seem'd his son, 
Had that dark look the timid shun ; 
The half clad serfs behind them sate, 
And scowl'd a glare 'twixt fear and hate — 
Till all, as darkness onward crept, 
Couch'd down, and seem'd to sleep or slept. 
Nor he, that boy, whose powerless tongue 
Must trust his eyes to wail his wrong, 
A longer watch of sorrow made, 
But stretch'd his limbs to slumber laid. 



Not in his dangerous host confides 
The King, but wary watch provides. 
Roland keeps ward till midnight past. 
Then wakes the King, young Allan last ; 
Thus rank'd, to give tlie youthful page 
The rest required by tender age. 
What is Lord Ronald's wakeful thought. 
To chase the languor toil had brought ?— 
( For deem not that he deign'd to throw 
Much care upon such coward foe,)— 
He thmks of lovely Isabel, 
When at her foeman's feet she fell, 
Nor less when, placed in princely selle, 
She glanced on him with favoring eyes, 
At Woodstock when he won the prize, 
Nor, fair in joy, in sorrow fair. 
In pride of place as 'mid despair. 
Must she alone engross his care. 
His thoughts to his betrothed bride. 
To Edith, turn — O how decide. 
When here his love and heart are given. 
And there his faith stands pliglit to Heaven 
No drowsy ward 'tis his to keep. 
For seldom lovers long for sleep. 
Till sung his midnight liymn the owl, 
Answer'd the dog-fox with liis howl, 
Then waked the King — at his request. 
Lord Ronald stretch'd himself to rest. 

XXVII. 

What spell was good King Robert's, say, 
To drive the weary night away ? 



His was tlie patriot's burning thought, 

Of Freedom's battle bravely fought. 

Of castles storm' d, of cities freed, 

Of deep design and daring deed, 

Of England's roses reft and torn, 

And Scotland's cross in triumpli worn. 

Of rout and rally, war and truce,— 

As heroes think, so thought the Bruce. 

No marvel, 'mid such musings high, 

Sleep shunn'd the Monarch's thoughtfijl 

eye. 
Now over Coolin's eastern head 
The grayish liglit begins to spread. 
The otter to his cavern drew, 
And clamor'd shrill the wakening mew; 
Then watch'd the page — to needful rest 
The King resign'd his anxious breast. 

XXVIII. 

To Allan's eyes was harder task. 
The weary watch their safeties ask. 
He trimm'd the fire, and gave to shine 
With bickering light the splinter'd pine ; 
Then gazed awhile, where silent laid 
Their hosts were shrouded by the plaid. 
But little fear waked in his mmd. 
For he was bred of martial kind, 
And, if to manhood he arrive. 
May match the boldest knight alive. 
Then thought he of his mother's tower, 
His little sisters' greenwood bower. 
How there the Easter-gambols pass, 
And of Dan Joseph's lengthen'd mass. 
But still before his weary eye 
In rays prolong'd the blazes die — 
Again he roused him — on the lake 
Look'd forth, where now the twilight- 
flake 
Of pale cold dawn began to wake. 
On Coolin's cliffs the mist lay furl'd, 
The morning breeze the lake had curl'd, 
The short dark waves, heaved to the land, 
With ceaseless splash kiss'd cliff or sand ;— 
It was a slumbrous sound — he turn'd 
To tales at which his youth had burn'd, 
Of pilgrim's path by demon cross'd, 
Of sprightly elf or yelling ghost, 
Of the wild witch's baneful cot. 
And mermaid's alabaster grot, 
Who batlics her limbs in sunless well. 
Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell.^^ 
Thither in fancy wrapt he flies. 
And on his sight the vaults arise ; 
That hut's dark walls he sees no more, 
His foot is on the marble floor. 
And o'er his head the dazzling spars 
Gleam like a firmament of stars I 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



277 



— Kark ! hears he not the sea-nymph speak 
Her anger in tliat thrilHng shriek ! — 
No ! all too late, with Allan's dream 
Mingled the captive's warning scream. 
As from the ground he strives to start, 
A ruffian's dagger finds his heart ! 
Upward he casts his dizzy eyes, * * * 
Murmurs his master's nan'ie, * * * and dies ! 

XXIX. 

Not so awoke the King ! his hand 
Snatch'd from the flame a knotted brand. 
The nearest weapon of his wrath ; 
With this he cross'd the murderer's path. 

And venged young Allan well ! 
Tlie spatter'd brain and bubbling blood 
Miss'd on the half-extinguish'd wood. 

The miscreant gasp'd and fell ! 
Nor rose in peace the Island Lord ; 
One caitiff died upon his sword, 
And one beneath his grasp lies prone. 
In mortal grapple overthrown. 
But while Lord Ronald's dagger drank 
The life-blood from his panting flank, 
The p-ather-ruffian of the band 
Behind him rears a coward hand ! 

— O for a moment's aid, 
Till Bruce, who deals no double blow 
Dash to the earth another foe, 

Above his comrade laid ! — 
And it is gain'd — the captive sprung 
On the raised arm, and closely clung, 

And, ere he shook him loose. 
The master'd felon press'd the ground. 
And gasp'd beneath the mortal wound, 

While o'er him stands the Bruce. 



" Miscreant ! while lasts thy flitting spark, 
Give me to know the purpose dark, 
That arm'd thy hand with murderous knife, 
Against offenceless stranger's life?" 
" No jjtranger thou ! " with accent fell, 
Murrnur'd the wretch ; " I know thee well ; 
And know thee for the foeman sworn 
Of my high Chief, the mighty Lorn." 
" Speak yet again, and speak the truth 
For thy soul's sake ! — from whence this 

youth 1 
His country, birth, and name declare, 
And thus one evil deed repair." — 
— " Vex me no more 1 * * * my blood runs 

cold * * * 
No more I know than I have told. 
We found him in a bark we sought 
With different purpose * » * and I 

thought" ♦ * » 



Fate cut him short ; in blood and broil, 
As he had lived, died Cormac Doil. 

XXXI. 

Then resting on his bloody blade, 
The valiant Bruce to Roland said, 
" Now shame upon us both ! — that boy 

Lifts his mute face to heaven, 
And clasps his hands to testify 
His gratitude to God on high, 

For strange deliverance given. 
His speechless gesture thanks hath paid, 
Which our free tongues have left unsaid l'^ 
He raised the youth with kindly woid. 
But mark'd him shudder at the sword : 
He cleansed it from its hue of death, 
And plunged the weapon in its sheath. " 
" Alas, poor child ! unfitting part 
Fate doom'd, when with so soft a heart, 

And form so slight as tliine, 
She made thee first a pirate's slave, 
Then, in his stead, a patron gave 

Of v/ayward lot hke mine ; 
A landless prince, whose wandering life 
Is but one scene of blood and strife — 
Vet scant of friends the Bruce shall be, 
But he'll find resting-place for thee. — 
Come, noble Ronald ! o'er the dead 
Enough thy generous grief is paid. 
And well has Allan's fate been wroke ; 
Come, wend we hence — the day has brokev 
Seek we our bark — I trust the tale 
Was false, that she had hoisted sail." 



Yet, ere they left that charnel-cell. 
The Island Lord bade sad farewell 
To Allan :— " Who shall tell this tale," 
He said, " in halls of Donagaile ! 
Oh, who his widow'd mother tell, 
That, ere his bloom, her fairest fell ! — 
Rest thee, poor youth ! and trust my carp 
For mass and knell and funeral prayer ; 
While o'er those caitiffs, where they lio. 
The wolf shall snarl, the raven cry ! " 
And now the eastern mountain's head 
On the dark lake threw lustre red ; 
Bright gleams of gold and purple streak 
Ravine and precipice and peak — 
(So earthly power at distance shows; 
Reveals his splendor, hides his woes ) 
O'er sheets of granite dark and broad, 
Rent and unequal, lay the road. 
In sad discourse the warriors wind, 
And the mute captive moves behind. 



2lS 



scorrs poetical works. 



CANTO FOURTH. 
I. 

- Stranger ! if e'er thine ardent step 

hath traced 
The northern realms of ancient Caledon, 
Where the proud Queen of Wilderness 

hath placed, 
By lake and cataract, her lonely throne ; 
Sublime but sad delight tliy soul hath 

known, 
Gazing on pathless glen and mountain 

high, 
Listing where from the chfts the .torrents 

thrown 
Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry, 
And with the sounding lake, and with the 

nioaning sky. 

Yes! 'twas sublime, but sad. — The lone- 
liness 

Loaded thy heart, the desert tired thine 
eye ; 

And strange and awful fears began to 
press 

Thy bosom with a stern solemnity. 

Then hast thou wish'd some woodman's 
cottage nigh,. 

Something that show'd of life, though 
low and mean ; 

Glad sight, its curling wreath of smoke 
to spy. 

Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol would 
have been, 
Or children whooping wild beneath the wil- 
lows green. 

Such are the scenes, where savage gran- 
deur wakes 

An awful thrill that softens into sighs ; 

Such feelings rouse them by dim Ran- 
noch's lakes, 

In dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures 
rise; 

Or farther, where, beneath the northern 
skies. 

Chides wild Loch - Eribol his caverns 
hoar — • 

But, be the minstrel judge, they yield the 
prize 

Of desert dignity to that dread shore, 
That sees grim Coolin rise, and hears 
Coriskin roar. 



Through such wild scenes the champion 

pass'd, 
When bold halloo and bugle-blast 



Upon the breeze came loud and fast. 

" There," said the Bruce, " rung Edward's 

horn ! 
Whan can have caused such brief return? 
And see, brave Ronald, — see him dart 
O'er stock and stone like hunted hart, 
Precipitate, as is the use, 
In war or sport, of. Edward Bruce. 
— He marks us, and his eager cry 
Will tell his news ere he be nigh." 

III. 
Loud Edward shouts, " What niake y» 

here. 
Warring upon the mountain-deer. 

When Scotlcind wants her king? 
A bark from Lennox cross'd our track, 
With her in speed I hurried back, 

These joyful news to bring — 
The Stuart stirs in Teviotdale, 
And Douglas wakes his native vale ; 
Thy storm-toss'd fleet hath won its way 
With little loss to Brodick-Bay, 
And Lennox, with a gallant band. 
Waits but thy coming and command 
To waft them o'er to Carrick strand. 
There are blithe news ! — but mark th« 

close 1 
Edward, the deadliest of our foes. 
As with his host he northward pass'd, 
Hath on the Borders breathed his last." 

IV. 

Still stood the Bruce — his steady cheek 
Was little wont his joy to speak, 

But then his color rose : 
" Now, Scotland! shortly shalt thou see 
With God's high will, thy children tree^ 

And vengeance on thy foes ! 
Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs, 
Bear witness with me, Heaven, belongs 

My joy o'er Edward's bier ; ^^ 
I took my knighthood at his hand, 
And lordship held of him, and land, 

And well may vouch it here. 
That, blot the story from his page. 
Of Scotland ruin'd in his rage, 
You read a monarch brave and sage, 

And to his people dear. " 
" Let London's burghers mourn her Lord, 
And Croydon monks his praise record," 

The eager Edward said ; 
" Eternal as his own, my hate 
Surmounts tlie bounds of mortal fate, 

And dies not with the dead ! 
Such hate was his on Solway's strand, 
When vengeance clench'd his palsied hand, 
That pointed yet lo Scotland's land. 



TEE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



279 



As his last accents pray'd 
Disgrace and curse upon his heir, 
If he one Scottish head should spare, 
Till stretch'd upon the bloody lair 

Each rebel corpse was laid ! 
Such hate was his, when his last breath 
Renounced the peaceful house of death, 
And bade his bones to Scotland's coast 
Be borne by his remorseless host, 
As if his dead and stony eye 
Could still enjoy her misery ! 
Such hate was his — dark, deadly, long ! 
Mine, — as enduring, deep, and strong I '' — 

V. 

"Let women, Edward, war with words. 

With curses monks, but men with swords : 

Nor doubt of living foes, to sate 

Deepest revenge and deadliest hate. 

Now, t' the sea ! behold the beach, 

And see the galleys' pendants stretch 

Their fluttering length down favoring gale ! 

Aboard, aboard I and hoist the sail. 

Hold we our way for Arran first. 

Where meet in arms our friends dispersed ; 

Lennox the loyal, De la Haye, 

And Boyd the bold in battle fray. 

J long the hardy band to head, 

And see once more my standard spread. — 

Does noble Ronald share our course, 

Or stay to raise his island force ? "— 

" Come weal, come woe, by Bruce's side," 

Replied the Chief, "will Ronald bide. 

And since two galleys yonder ride. 

Be mine, so please my liege, dismiss'd 

To wake to arms the clans of Uist, 

And all who hear the Ivlinche's roar, 

On the Long Island's lonely shore. 

The nearer Isles, with slight delay. 

Ourselves may summon in our way ; 

And soon on Arran's shore shall meet, 

With TorquiPs aid, a gallant fleet. 

If auglit avails their Chieftain's best 

Among the isleamen of the west." 

VI. 

Thus was theii venturous council said. 
But, ere their sails the galleys spread, 
Coriskin dark and Coolin high 
Echoed the dirge's doleful cry. 
Ajong that sable lake pass'd slow, — 
Fit scene for such a sight of woe, 
The sorrowing islesmen, as they bore 
The murder'd Allan to the shore. 
At every pause, with dismal shput, 
Their copona^jji of grief rung out, 



And ever, when they moved aga'n, 
The pipes resumed their clamorous strain, 
And, with tlie pibroch's shrilling v/ail, 
Mourn'd the young heir of Donagaile. 
Round and around, from cliff and cave. 
His answer stern old Coolin gave, 
Till high upon his mistv side 
Languish'd the mournful notes, and died. 
For never sounds, by mortal made, 
Attain'd his high and haggard liead, 
That echoes but the tempest's nman, 
Or the deep thunder's rending groan. 

VII. 
Merrily, merrily bounds the bark. 

She bounds before the gale, 
The mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch 

Is joyous in her sail ! 
With fluttering sound like laughter hoarse, 

The cords and canvas strain, 
The waves, divided by her f^rce, 
In rippling eddies chased her course, 

As if they laugh'd again. 
Not down the breeze more blithely flew, 
Skimming tlie wave, the light sea-mew, 

Tlian the gay galley bore. 
Her course upon that favoring wind, 
And Coolin's crest had sunk behind, 

And Slapin's cavern'd shore. 
'Twas then that warlike signals wake 
Dunscaith's dark towers and Eisord's lake, 
And soon, from Cavilgarri-gh's head, 
Thick wreaths of eddying smoke were 

spread ; 
A summons these of war and wrath 
To the brave clans of Sleat and Stratli, 

And, ready at the sight. 
Each warrior to his weapons sprung, 
And targe upon his shoulder flung. 

Impatient for the fight. 
Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare graj', 
Had charge to muster their arrav. 
And guide their barks to Brodick-Bay. 

VIII. 
Signal of Ronald's high command, 
A beacon gleam'd o'er sea and land, 
From Canna's tower, that, steep and gray; 
Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay. 
Seek not the giddy crag "to climb, 
To view the turret scathed by time, 
It is a task of doubt and fear 
To aught but goat or mountain-deer 

But rest thee on the silver beach, 

And let the aged herdsman teach 
His tale of former day ; 

His cur's wild clamor he shall chide, 

And for thy seat by ocean's side, 



2So 



scorrs poetical works. 



His varied plaid display ; 

Then tell, how with their Chieftain came, 

In ancient times a foreign dame 
To yonder turret gray. 
Stern was her Lord's suspicious mind, 
Who in so rude a jail confined 

So soft and fair a thrall I 
And oft, when moon on ocean slept, 
That lovely lady sate and wept 

Upon the castle wall, 
And turn'd her eye to southern climes, 
And thought perchance of happier times, 
And touch'd lier lute by fits, and sung 
Wild ditties in her native tongue. 
And still, when on the cliff and bay, 
Placid and pale the moonbeams play, 

And every breeze is mute. 
Upon the lone Hebridean's ear 
Steals a strange pleasure mix'd with fear, 
While from that cHff he seems to hear 

The murmur of a lute. 
And sounds, as of a captive lone, 
That mourns her woes in tongue un- 
known. — 
Strange is the tale — but all too long 
Already hath it staid the song — • 

Yet who may pass them by, 
That crag and tower in ruins gray, 
Nor to their hapless tenant pay 

The tribute of a sigh 1 

IX. 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark 

O'er the broad ocean driven, 
Her path by Renin's mountains dark 

The steersman's hand hath given. 
And Ronin's mountains dark have sent 

Their hunters to the shore,^-*- 
And each his ashen bow unbent, 

And gave his pastime o'er, 
And at the Island Lord's command, 
For hunting spear took warrior's brand. 
On Scooreigg next a warning light 
Summon'd lier warriors to the fight ; 
A numerous race, ere stern MacLeod 
O'er their bleak shores in vengeance 

strode,2S 
WVien all in vain the ocean-cave 
Its refuge to his victims gave. 
The Chief, relentless in his wrath, 
With blazing heath blockades the path ; 
In dense and stifling volumes roll'd, 
The vapor fill'd the cavern'd hold ! 
The warrior-threat, the infant's plain, 
The mother's screams were heard in vain ! 
T!u! vengeful Chief maintains his fires, 
Till in the vault a tribe expires I 



The bones which strew that cavern' 
Too well attest their dismal doom. 



;loora 



Merrily, merrily goes the bark 

On a breeze frcm the northward free. 
So shoots through the morning sky the la' 

Or the swan through the summer sea. 
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, 
And Ulva dark and Colonsay, 
And all the group of islets gay 

That guard famed Staff a round. 
Then all unknown its columns rose, 
Where dark and undisturb'd repose 

The cormorant had found. 
And the shy seal had quiet home, 
And welter'd in that wondrous dome, 
Where, as to shame the temples deck'd 
By skill of earthly architect, 
Nature herself, it seem'd would raise 
A Minster to her Maker's praise ! 
Not for a meaner use ascend 
Her columns, or her arches bend ; 
Nor of a theme less solemn tells 
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, 
And still, between each awful pause, 
From the high vault an answer draws, 
In varied tone prolonged and high, 
That mocks the organ's melody. 
Nor doth its entrance front in vain 
To old lona's holy fane. 
That Nature's voice )niglit seem to say, 
" Well hast thou done, frail Child of clay* 
Thy humble powers that stately shrine 
Task'd high and hard — but witness mine 1 " 



Merrily, merrily goes the bark, 

Before the gale she bounds ; 
So darts the dolphin from the sliark, 

Or the deer before the hounds. 
They left Loch-Tua on their lee, 
And they waken'd the men of tlie w 
Tiree, 

And the Chief of the sandy Coll ; 
They paused not at Columba's isle. 
Though peal'd the bells from *he holy pile 

With long and measured toll ; 
No time for matin or for mass, 
And the sounds of the holy summons pass 

Away in the billows' roll. 
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike Lord 
Their signal saw, and grasp'd his sword, 
And verdant Islay call'd her host. 
And the clans of Jura's rugged coast 

Lord Ronald's call obey, 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



281 



And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore 
Still rin'^s to Corrievreken's roar, 

And lonel}^ Colonsay ; 
—Scenes sun? by him who sings no more ! ^^ 
His bright and brief career is o'er, 

And mute his tuneful strains ; 
Ouench'd is his lamp of varied lore, 
That loved the light of song to pour ; 
A distant and a deadly shore 

Has Leyden's cold remains ! 



Ever the breeze blows merrily, 
But the galley ploughs no more the sea. 
Lest, rounding wild Cantyre, they meet 
The southern foemen's watchful fleet, 

They held unwonted way ; — 
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore. 
Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus o'er,^^ 
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore, 

Upon the eastern bay. 
It was a wondrous sight to see 
Topmast and pennon glitter free. 
High raised above the greenwood tree, 
As on dryland the galley moves. 
By cliff and copse and alder groves. 
Deep import from that selcouth sign, 
Did many a mountain Seer divine, 
For ancient legends told the Gael, 
That when a royal bark should sail 

O'er Kilmaconnel moss. 
Old Albyn should in fight prevail, 
And every foe should faint and quail 

Before her silver Cross. 

XIII. 

Now launch'd once more, the inland sea 
Thej' furrow with fair augury, 

And steer for Arran's isle ; 
The sun, ere yet he sunk behind 
Ben-Ghoil, "the Mountair> of the Wind," 
Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind, 

And bade Loch Ranza smile. ^^ 
Thither their destined course they drew ; 
It seem'd the isle her monarch knew, 
So brilliant was the landward view, 

Thi ocean so serene ; 
Each puny wave in diamonds roll'd 
O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold 

With azure strove and green. 
Th2 hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, 
Glov/'d with the tints of evening's hour, 

The beach was silver sheen. 
The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh, 
And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die, 

With breathless pause between. 
who, with speech of war and woes, 



Would wish to break the soft repose 
Of such enchantin? scene I 



Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks ? 
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks, 
The timid look and downcast eye, 
And faltering voice the theme deny. 

And good King Robert's brow express'd„ 
He ponder'd o'er some high request, 

As doubtful to approve ; 
Yet in his eye and lip the while, 
Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile, 
Which manh.ood's graver mood beguile. 
When lovers talk of love. 
Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled ; 
— " And for my bride bethrothed," he said, 
•' My Liege has heard the rumor spread, 
Of Edith from Artornisb fled. 
Too hard her fate — 1 claim no right 
To blam? her for her hasty flight ; 
Be joy and happiness her lot ! — 
But she hatli fled the bridal knot. 
And Lorn recall'd his promised plight, 
In the assembled chieftains' sight. — 
When, to fulfil our fathers' band, 
I proffer'd all I could — my hand — 

I was repulsed with scorn ; 

Mine honor I should ill assert. 

And worse the feelings of my heart. 

If I should play a suitor's part 

Again, to pleasure Lorn.'' 

XV. 

" Young Lord,'' the royal Bruce replied, 
" That question must the Church decide ; 
Yet seems it hard, since rumors state 
Edith takes Clifford for her mate. 
The very tie, which she hath broke. 
To thee should still be binding yoke. 
But, for my sister Isabel — 
The mood of woman who can tell ? 
I guess the Champion of the Rock, 
Victorious in the tourney shock, 
That knight unknown, to whom the prize 
She dealt, — had favor in her eyes ; 
But since our brother Nigel's fate, 
Our ruin'd house and hapless state. 
From worldly joy and hope estranged, 
Much is the hapless mourner chaftged. 
Perchance," here smiled the noble King, 
" This tale may other musings bring. 
Soon shall we know — yon mountains bids 
The Httle convent of Saint Bride ; 
There, sent by Edward, she must stay, 
Till fate shall give more prosperous cky ; 



282 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And thither will I bear thy suit, 
Nor will thine advocate be mute." 

XVI. 

As thus they talk'd in earnest mood, 
That speechless boy beside them stood. 
He stoop'd his head against the mast, 
And bitter sobs came thick and fast, 
A grief that would not be repress'd, 
But seem'd to burst his youthful breast. 
His hands, against his forehead held, 
As if by force his tears repell'd. 
But through his fingers, long and slight, 
Fast triird the drops of crystal bright, 
Edward, who walk'd the deck apart. 
First spied this conflict of the heart. 
Thoughtless as brave, with bluntncss kind 
He sought to cheer the sorrower's mind ; 
By force the slender hand he drew 
From those poor eyes that stream'd with 

dew. 
As in his hold the stripling strove, — 
('Twas a rough grasp, though meant in 

love,) 
Away his tears the warrior swept, 
And bade shame on him that he wept. 
" 1 would to Heaven, thy helpless tongue 
Could tell me who hath wrought thee 

wrong ! 
For, were he of our crew the best, 
The insult went not unredress'd. 
Come, cheer thee ; thou art now of age 
To be a warrior's gallant page ; 
Thou shalt be mine ! — a palfrey fair 
O'er hill and holt my boy shall bear, 
To hold my bow in hunting grove, 
Or speed on errand to my love ; 
For well I v/ot thou wilt not tell 
The temple where my wishes dwell." 



Bruce interposed, — " Gay Edward, no, 

This is no youth to hold thy bo'v, 

To fill thy goblet, or to bear 

Thy message light to lighter fair. 

Thou art a patron all too wild 

And thoughtless, for this orphan child. 

See'st thou not how apart he steals. 

Keeps lonely couch, and lonely meals 1 

Fitter by far in yon calm cell 

To tend o»r sister Isabel, 

With Father Augustin to share 

The peaceful change of convent prayer. 

Than wander wild adventures through, 

Witli such a reckless guide as you.''— 

"Thanks, brother!'' Edward answer'd 

gay. 



" For the high laud thy words convey 1 
But we may learn some future day. 
If thou or I can this poor boy 
Protect the best, or best employ. 
Meanwhile, our vessel nears the strand; 
Launch we the boat, and seek the land." 

XVIII. 

To land King Robert lightly sprung, 
And thrice aloud his bugle rung 
With note prolong'd and varied strain, 
Till bold Ben-Ghoil replied again. 
Good Douglas then, and De la Haye, 
Had in a glen a hart at bay. 
And Lennox cheer'd the laggard hoimds, 
When waked that horn the greenwood 

bounds. 
" It is the foe ! " cried Boyd, who came 
In breathless haste with eye of flame, — 
" It is the foe ! — Each valiant lord 
Fling by his bov/, and grasp his sword ! "-« 
" Not so," replied the good Lord Jasnes, 
" That blast no English bugle claims. 
Oft have I heard it fir2 the^'ight, 
Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight. 
Dead were my heart, and deaf mine ear. 
If Bruce should call, nor Douglas hear I 
Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring ; 
That blast was winded by the King I " ^9 



Fast to their mates the tidings spread, 
And fast to shore the warriors sped. 
Bursting from glen and greenwood tree, 
High waked their loyal jubilee 1 
Around the royal Bruce they crowd. 
And clasp'd his hands, and weot aloud. 
Veterans of early fields were there. 
Whose helmets press'd their hoary hair, 
Whose swords and axes bore a stain 
From life-blood of the red-hair'd Dane ; 
And boys, whose hands -scarce brook'd t© 

wield 
The heavy sword or bossy shield. 
Men too were there, that bore the scars 
Impress'd in Albyn's woeful wars. 
At Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight, 
Teyndrum's dread rout, and Methven'i 

flight ; 
The might of Douglas there was seen, 
There Lennox with his graceful mien ; 
Kirkpatrick, Closeburn's dreaded Knight; 
The Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light ; 
The Heir of murder'd De la Haye, 
And Boyd the grave, and Seton gay. 
Around their King regain'd they press'd, 
Wept, shouted, clasp'd him. to their breast. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



a8' 



And young and old, and serf and lord, 
And he who ne'er unsheathed a sword, 
And he in many a peril tried. 
Alike resolved the brunt to bide, 
And live or die by Brace's side ! 

XX. 

Oh, War! thou hast thy fierce delight, 
Thy gleams of joy, intensely briglit ! 
Such gleams, as from thy polish'd shield 
Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field ! 
Such transports wake, severe and high, 
Amid the pealing conquest-cry; 
Scarce less, when, after battle lost, 
Muster the remnants of a host, 
And as each comrade's name they tell, 
Who in the well-fought conflict fell. 
Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye, 
Vow to avenge them or to die I — 
Warriors ! — and where are warriors found, 
If not on martial Britain's ground ? 
And who, when waked with note of fire, 
Love more than they the British lyre? — 
Know ye not, — hearts to honor dear ! 
That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe. 
At which the heart-strings vibrate high, 
And wake the fountains of the eye ? 
And blame ye, then, the Bruce, if trace 
Of tear is on his manly face, 
When, scanty relics of the train 
That hail'd at Scone his early reign^ 
This patriot band around him hung. 
And to his knees and bosom clung? — 
Blame ye the Bruce ? — his brotheV blamed. 
But shared the weakness, while ashamed, 
With haughty laugh his head he turn'd. 
And dash'd away the tear he scorn'd.-'® 



'Tis morning, and the Convent bell 
Long time had ceased its matin knell, 

Within thy walls, Saint Bride 1 
An aged Sister sought the cell 
Assign'd to Lady Isabel, 

And hurriedly she cried, 
" Haste, gentle Lady, haste — there waits 
A noble stranger at the gates ; 
Saint Bride's poor vot'ress ne'er has seen 
A Knight of such a princely mien ; 
His errand, as he bade me tell, 
Is with the Lady Isabel." 
The princess rose, — for on her knee 
Low bent she told her rosary, — 
" Let him by thee his purpose teach ; 
I may not give a stranger speech." — 
" Saint Bride forefend, thou royal Maid ! " 
The portress cross'd herself, and said, 



" Not to be prioress might I 
Debate his will, his suit deny." — 
" Has earthly show then, simple fool, 
Power o'er a sister of thy rule ? 
And art thou, like the worldly train. 
Subdued by splendors light and vain ? "-=. 



" No, Lady ! in old eyes like mine. 

Gauds have no glitter, gems no shine ; 

Nor grace his rank attendants vain. 

One youthful page is all his train. 

it is the form, the eye, the word. 

The bearing of that stranger Lord; 

His stature, manly, bold, and tall. 

Built like a castle's battled wall. 

Yet moulded in such just degrees. 

His giant strength seems lightsome ease. 

Close as the tendrils of the vine 

His locks upon his forehead twine. 

Jet-black, save where some touch of grav 

Has ta'en the youthful hue away. 

Weather and war their rougher trace 

Have left oh that majestic face; — 

But 'tis his dignity of eye I 

There, if a suppliant, would ' fly, 

Secure, 'mid danger, wrongs, and grief. 

Of sympathy, redress, relief — 

That glance, if guilty, would I dread 

More than the doom that spoke me 

dead ! "— 
" Enough, enough," the princess cried, 
" 'Tis Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride I 
To meaner front was ne'er assign'd 
Such mastery o'er the common mind — 
Bestow'd thy high designs to aid. 
How long, O Heaven! how long de- 

lay'd !— 
Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce 
My darling brother, royal Bruce! " 

XXIII. 

They met like friends who part in pain, 
And meet in doubtful hope again. 
F'ut when subdued that fitful swell. 
The Bruce survey'd the humble cell 1 — 
•' And this is thine, poor Isabel ! — 
That pallet-couch, and naked wall. 
For room of state, and bed of pall ; 
i'^or costly robes and jewels rare, 
A string of beads and zone of hair ; 
And for the trumpet's sprightly call 
To sport or banquet, grove or hall, 
The bell's grim voice divides thy care, 
'Twixt hours of penitence and prayer I — 
O ill for thee, my royal claim 
From the First David's sainted namel 



284 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WOKJCS. 



O W02 for thee, that while he sought 
His right, tliy brotlier feebly fought ! " — 



"* Now lay these vain regrets aside, 

And be the unshaken Bruce ! " she cried. 

" For more I glory to have shared 

The woes thy venturous spirit dared, 

When raising first thy valiant band 

In rescue of thy native land, 

Th m had fair Fortune set me down 

The partner of an empire's crown. 

And grieve not that on Pleasure's stream 

No more I drive in giddy dream, 

For Heaven the erring pilot knew. 

And from the gulf the vessel drew, 

Tried me with judgments stern and great, 

My house's ruin, thy defeat, 

Poor Nigel's death, till, tamed, '' own, 

My hopes are fi: 'd on Heaven alone ; 

Nor e'er shall earthly prospects win 

My heart to this vain world cf sin." — 

XXV 

" Nay, Isabel, for such stem choice. 

First wilt thou wait thy brother's voice ; 

Then ponder if in convent scene 

No softer thoughts might intervene — 

Say they were of that unknown Knight, 

Victor in Woodstock's tourney-fight — 

Nay, if his name such blush you owe, 

Victorious o'er a fairer foe ! " 

Truly his penetrating eye 

Hath caught that blush's passing dye, — 

Like the las'^ beam of evening thrown 

On a white cloud, — just seen and gone. 

Soon with calm cheek and steady eye, 

The princess made composed reply : — 

" I guess my brother's meaning well ; 

For not so silent is the cell, 

But we have heard the islesmen all 

Arm in thy cause at Ronald's call. 

And mine eyes prove that Knight unknown 

And the brave Island Lord are one.— 

Had then his suit been earlier made, 

In his own name, with thee to aid, 

(But that his plighted faith forbade,) 

I know not * * * But thy page so near ? — 

This is no tale for menial's ear." 

XXVI. 

Still stood that page, as far apart 

As the small cell would sjDace afford ; 

With dizzy eye and bursting heart. 

He leant his weight on Bruce's sword ; 

The monarch's mantle too he bore, 

And drew the fold his visage o'er. 



" Fear not for him — in murderous strife," 

Said Bruce, " his warning saved my life\ 

Full seldom pans he from my side, 

And ;n his silenc^I confide, 

Since he can teil no tale again. 

He is a boy of gentle strain, 

And 1 have purposed he shall dwell 

In Augustin the chaplain's cell, 

And wait on thee, my Isabel. — 

Mind not his tears ; I've seen them, flow. 

As in the thaw' dissolves the snow. 

'Tis a kind youth, but fanciful, 

Unfit against the tide to pull, 

And those that with the I3ruce would sail. 

Must learn to strive with stream and gale.— 

But forward, gentle Isabel — 

My answer for Lord Ronald tell." — 

XXVII. 

" This answer be to Ronald given — 
I The heart he asks is fix'd on heaven. 
My love was like a summer flower, 
That wither'd in the wintry hour. 
Born but of vanity and pride. 
And with these sunny visions died. 
If further press his suit — then say, 
He should his plighted troth obey. 
Troth plighted both with ring and word, 
And sworn on crucifix and sword. — 
Oh, shame thee, Robert! I have seen 
Thou hast a woman's guardian been ! 
Even in extremity's dread hour, 
When press'd on thee the Southern powet^ 
And safety, to all human sight. 
Was only found in rapid flight. 
Thou heard'st a wretched female plain 
In agony of travail-pain. 
And thou didst bid thy little band 
Upon the instant turn and stand, 
And dare the worst the foe might do, 
Rather than, like a knight untrue, 
Leave to pursuers merciless 
A woman in her last distress. 3' 
And wilt thou now deny thine aid 
To an oppress'd and injured maid. 
Even plead for Ronald's perfidy, 
And press his fickle faith on mei" — 
So witness Heaven, as true I vow, 
Had I those earthly feelings now. 
Which could my former bosom move 
Ere taught to set its hopes above, 
I'd spurn each proffer he could bring, 
Till at my feet he laid the ring. 
The ring and spousal contnact both, 
And fair acquittal of his oath. 
By her who brooks his perjured sconiy 
The ill-requited Maid of Lorn I " 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



28s 



XXVIII. 
With sudden impulse forward sprung 
The page, and on her neck he hung ; 
Then, recollected instantly, 
His head he stoop'd, and bent his knee, 
Kisb'd twice the hand of Isabel, 
Arose, and sudden left the cell. — 
The princess, loosen'd from his hold, 
Blushed angry at his bearing bold ; 

But gocd King Robert cried, 
" Chafe n't — by signs he speaks his mind, 
He heard the plan my care design'd, 

Nor cculd h:s transports hide. — 
But, sister, n^w bethink thee well ; 
No easy choice the convent cell ! 
Trust, I shall play no tyrant part, 
Either to force fhy hand or heart, 
Or suffer that Lord R( nald scorn, 
Or wrong for thee, the Maid of I.orn, 
But think,— not long the tim j has been, 
That thou wert wont tj sigh unseen. 
And wouldst the ditties best approve, 
That told some lay of hapless love. 
Now are thy wishes in thy power, 
And thou art bent on cloister bower ! 
O ! if our Edward knew the change, 
How would his busy satire range, 
With many a sarcasm varied still 
On woman's wish, and woman's will ! " — 

XXIX. 

" Brother, I well believe," she said, 

" Even so would Edward's part be play'd. 

Kindly in heart, in word severe, 

A foe to thought, and grief, and fear. 

He holds his humor uncontroll'd ; 

But thou art of another mould. 

Say then to Ronald, as I say. 

Unless before my feet he lay 

The ring which bound the faith he swore. 

By Edith freely yielded o'er. 

He moves his suit to me no more. 

Nor do I promise, even if now 

He stood absolved of spousal vow. 

That 1 would change my purpose made 

To shelter me in holy shade. — 

Brother, for little space, farewell ! 

To other duties warns the bell ! " — 

XXX. 

•* Lost to the world," King Robert said, 
When he had left the royal maid, 
" Lost to the world by lot severe, 
O what a gem lies buried here, 
Nipp'd by misfortune's cruel frost, 
Tlie buds of fair affection lost ! 
But what have I with love to do ? 
Far sterner cares my lot pursue. 



— Pent in this isle we may not lie, 
Nor would it long our wants supply. 
Right opposite, the mainland towers 
Of my own Turnberry court our powers- 
— Might not my fatlier's beadsman hoar, 
Cuthbert, who dwells upon the shore, 
Kindle a signal-flame, to show 
The time propitious for the blow ? 
It shall be so — some friend shall bear 
Our mandate with despatch and care ; 
— Edward shall find the messenger. 
That fortress ours, the island fleet 
May on the coast of Carrick meet. — 
O Scotland ! shall it e'er be mine 
To wreak thy wrongs in battle-line, 
To raise my victor-head, and see 
Thy hills, thy dabs, thy people free, — 
That glance of bliss is all I crave. 
Betwixt my labors and my grave I '' 
Then down the iiill hj slowly went, 
Oft pausing on the steep descent, 
And reach'd the spot where his bold train 
Held rustic can;p upon the plain. 



CANTO FIFTH 



I. 



On fair Loch-Ranza stream'd the early 

day, 
Thin wreaths . of cottage smoke are up- 
ward curl'd 
From the lone hamlet, which her inland 

bay 
And circling mountains sever from the • 

world. 
And there the fisherman his sail unfurl'd, 
The goat-herd drove his kids to steep 

Ben-Ghoil. 
Before the hut the dame her spindle 

twirl'd. 
Courting the sunbeam as she plied her 

toil,— 
For, wake where'er he may. Mart wakes to 

care and coil. 

But other duties call'd each convent 
maid. 

Roused by the summons of the moss- 
grown bell, 

Sung were the matins, and the mass was 
said. 

And every sister sought her separate cell, 

Such was the rule, her rosary to tell. 

And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer : 



286 



scorrs poetical works. 



The sunbeam, through the narrow lattice 
fell 

Upon the snowy neck and long dark 
hair, 
As stoop'd her gentle head in meek devo- 
tion there. 



'• None, Lady, none of note or name ; 
Only your brother's fcot-page came, 
At peep of dawn — I pray'd him pass 
To chapel where they said the mass; 
But like an arrow he shot by, 
And tears seem'd bursting from his eye." 



She raised her eyes, that duty done, 
When glanced upon the pavement-stone, 
Gemm'd and enchased, a golden ring, 
Bound to a scroll with silken string, 
With few brief words inscribed to tell, 
" This for the Lady Isabel.'' 
Within, the writing further bore, 
" 'Twas with this ring his plight he swore, 
With this his promise I restore ; 
To her who can the heart command, 
Well may I yield the plighted hand. 
And O ! for better fortune born. 
Grudge not a passing sigh to mourn 
Her who was Edith once of Lorn ! '' 
One single flash of glad surprise 
Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes. 
But vanish'd in the blush of shame, 
That, as its penance, instant came. 
" O thought unworthy of my race I 
Selfish, ungenerous, mean, and base, 
A moment's throb of joy to own. 
That rose upon her hopes e'erthrown ! — 
Thou pledge of vows too well believed. 
Of man ingrate and maid deceived. 
Think not thy lustre here shall gain 
Another heart to hope in vain ! 
For thc<u shait rest, thou tempting gaud, 
Where worldly thoughts are overawed. 
And worldly splendors sink debased.'' 
Then by the cross the ring she placed. 

in. 
Next rose the thought, — its owner far, 
How came it here through bolt and bar ? — 
But the dim lattice is ajar. — 
She looks abroad, the morning dew 
A light short step had brush'd anew, 

And there were foot-prints seen 
On the carved buttress rising still, 
Till on the mossy window-sill. 

Their track effaced the green. 
The ivy twigs were torn and fray'd, 
As if some climber's steps to aid.— • 
But who the hardy messenger. 
Whose venturous path these signs inier: — 
" Strange doubts are mine ! — Mcna, draw 

nigh ; 
—Nought 'scapes old Mona's curious eye— 
What strangers, gentle mother, say, 
Have sought these holy walls today ? "— 



I The truth at once on Isabel, 

I As darted by a sunbeam, fell, 

i " 'Tis Edith's self ! — her speechless woe, 

■ Her form, her looks, the secret show I 

\ — Instant, good Mona, to the bay, 

i And to my royal brother say, 

; I do conjure him seek my cell, 

I With that mute page he loves so well." — 

I " What ! know'st thou not.his warlikt host 

I At break of day has left our coast ? 

I My old eyes saw them from the fewer. 

1 .At eve they couch'd in greenwood bower, 

1 At dawn a bugle signal, made 
By their bold Lord, their ranks array'd ; 
Up sprung the spears through biish and 

tree, 
No time for benedicite ! 
Like deer, that, rousing from their lair, 
Just shake the dewdrops from their hair, 
And toss their armed crests aloft, 

I Such matins theirs I " — " Good mother, 
soft— 
Where does my brother bend his way ? " 
" As I have heard, for Brodick-Bay, 
Across the isle — of barks a score 
Lie there, 'tis said, to waft them o'er, 
On sudden news, to Carrick-shcre."' — 
" If such their purpose, deep the need," 
Said anxious Isabel, " of speed 1 
Call Father Augustin, good dame." 
The nun obey'd, the Father canr.e. 



" Kind Father, hie without delay, 
Across the hills to Brodick Bay. 
This message to the Bruce be given | 
I pray him, by his hcpes cf Heaven, 
That, till he speak w'-^h nr.e, he stay I— 
Or, if his haste brock no delay, 
That he deliver, en rr.y suit, 
Into thy charge that stripling mute. 
Thus prays his sister Isabel, 
For causes mor j than she may tell — 
Away, good father ! and take heed, 
•' That life and death are on thy speed." 
} His cowl the good old priest did on, 
I Took his piked staff and sandall'd shoon, 
And, like a palmer bent by eld, 
O'er moss and moor his journey held. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES, 



2S7 



Heavy and dull the foot of age, 
And rugged was the pilgrimage ; 
But none was there beside, whose care 
Might such important message bear. 
Through birchen copse he wander'd slow. 
Stunted and sapless, thin and low ; 
By many a mountain stream he pass'd, 
From the tall cliffs in tumult cast, 
Dashing to foam their waters dun, 
And sparkling in the summer sun. 
Round his gray head the wild curlew 
In many a fearless circle flew. 
O'er chasms he pass'd, where fractures wide 
Craved wary eye and ample stride ; ^^ 
He cross'd his brow beside the stone 
Where Druids erst heard victims groan, 
And at the cairns upon the wild, 
O'er many a heathen hero piled. 
He breathed a timid prayer for those 
Who died ere Shiloh's sun arose. 
Beside Macfarlane's Cross he staid, 
There told his hours within the shade, 
And at the stream his thirst allay'd. 
Thence onward journeying, slowly still, 
As evening closed he reach'd the hill, 
Where, rising through the woodland green, 
Old Brodick's gothic towers were seen. 
From Hastings, late their English lord, 
Douglas had won them by tlie sword. ^^ 
The sun that sunk behind the isle, 
Now tinged them with a parting smile. 



But though the beams of light decay, 
'Twas bustle all in Brodick-Bay. 
The^Bruce's followers crowd the shore, 
And boats and barges some unmoor, 
Some raise the sail, some seize the oar ; 
Their eyes oft turn'd where glimmer'd far 
What might have seem'd an early star 
On heaven's blue arch, save tifat its light 
Was all too flickering, fierce, and bright. 

Far distant in the south, the ray 

Shone pale amid retiring day 
But as, on Carrick shore, 

Dim seen in outline faintly blue. 

The shades of evening closer drew, 
It kindled more and more. 
The monk's slow steps no.w press the sands, 
And now amid a scene he stands, 

Full strange to churchman's eye ; 
Warriors, who,'" arming for the fight, 
Rivet and clasp their harness light. 
And twinkling spears, and axes bright, 
And helmets flashing high. 



Oft, too, with unaccivetom'd ears, 
A language mucii unmeet he hears,** 

While, hastening all on board, 
As stormy as the swelling surge 
Tliat mix'd its roar, the leaders urge 
Their followers to t!ie ocean verge, 

With many a haughty word. 

VIII. 

Through that wild throng the Father pass'd. 

And reach'd the Royal Bruce at last, 

He leant against a stranded boat, 

That the approaching tide must float, 

And counted every rippling wave, 

As higher yet her sides they lave, 

And oft the distant fire he eyed, 

And closer yet his hauberk tied, 

And loosen'd in its sheath his brand. 

Edward and Lennox were at hand, 

Douglas and Ronald had the care 

The soldiers to the barks to share. — 

The Monk approacli'd and homage paid ; 

" And art thou come," King Robert said, 

" So far to bless lis ere we part ? " — 

— " My Liege, and with a loyal heart ! — 

But other charge I have to tell," — 

And spoke the best of Isabel. 

— " Now by Saint Giles," the monarch cried, 

•' This moves me much ! this morning tidp, 

I sent the stripling to Saint Bride, 

With my commandment there to bide." — 

— " Thither he came the portress show'd, 

But there, my Liege, made brief abode." 

IX. 

" 'Twas I," said Edward, " found employ 

Of nobler import for the boy. 

Deep pondering in my anxious mind, 

A fitting messenger to find, 

To bear thy written mandate o'er 

To Cuthhert on the Carnck shore, 

I chanced, at early dawn, to pass 

The chapel gate to snatch a mass. 

I found the stripling on a tomb 

Low-seated, weeping for the doom 

That gave his youth to convent gloom, 

I told my purpose, and his eyes 

Flashed joyful at the glad surprise. 

He bounded to the skiff, the sail 

Was spread before a prosperous gale, 

And well my charge he hath obey'd ; 

For, see ! the ruddy signal made, 

That Clifford, with his merry-men all, 

Guards carelessly our father's' hall. — 

X. 

" O wild of thought, and hard of heart I * 
Answered the Monarch, " on a part 



388 



SCOTT* S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of such deep danger to employ 

A mute, an orphan, and a boy ! 

Unfit for flight, unfit for strife, • 

Without a tongue to plead for life ! 

Now, were my right restored by Heaven, 

Edward, my crown I would Iiave given, 

Ere, thrust on such adventure wild, 

1 perill'd thus the helpless child." — 

• — Offended half, and half submiss, 

•* Brother and Liege, of blame Hke this." 

Edward replied, " 1 little dream'd. 

A stranger messenger, 1 deem'd. 

Might safest seek the beadsman's cell, 

Where all thy squires are known so well. 

Noteless liis presence, sharp his sense. 

Plis imperfection his defence. 

If seen, none can his errand guess ; 

Jf ta'en, his words no tale express — 

Methinks, too, y. nder beacon's shine 

Might expiate greater fault than mine." — 

" Rash," said King Robert, " was the deed — 

But it is done — Embark with speed ! — 

Good Father, say to Isabel 

How this uniiappy chance befell ; 

If well we thrive on yonder shore, 

Soon shall my care her page restore. 

Our greeting to our sister bear, 

And think of us in mass and prayer." 

XI. 

" Aye ! " said the Priest, " while this poor 

hand 
Can chalice raise or cross command. 
While my old voice has accents' use, 
Can Augustin forget the Bruce 1 " 
Then to his side Lord Ronald press'd. 
And whisper' d, ' Bear thou this recjuest, 
That when by Bruce's side I fight, 
For Scotland's crown and freedom's right. 
The pruicess grace her knight to bear 
Some token of her fav ring care ; 
It shall be shown whert England's best 
May shrink to see it on my crest. 
And for the boy — since weighter care 
For royal Bruce the times prepare, 
The helpless youth is Ronald's charge, 
His couch my plaid, his fence my targe." 
He ceased ; for many an eager hand 
Had urged the barges from the strand. 
Their number was a score and ten, 
They bore thrice tlireescore chosen men. 
With such small force did Bruce at last 
The die for death or empire cast 1 

XII. 
Now on the darkening main afloat, 
i^eady and mann'd rocks every boat 1 



Beneath their oars the ocean's might 
Was dash'd to sparks of glimmering light. 
Faint and more faint, as off they bore, 
Their armor glanced against the shore 
And, mingled with the dashing tide, 
Their murmuring voices distant died. — 
" God speed them ! " said the Priest, as 

dark 
On distant billows glides each bark ; 
" O Heaven 1 when swords for freedom shine, 
And monarch's right, the cause is thine ! 
Edge doubly every patriot blow ! 
Beat down the banners of the foe ! 
And be it to the nations known. 
That Victory is from God alone 1 " 
As up the hill his path he drew, 
He turn'd his blessings to renew, 
Oft turn'd. til! en the darken'd coast 
All traces of dieir c urse were lost ; 
Then slowly bent to Brodick tower, 
To shelter for the evei.ing .hoar. 



In night the fairy prospects sink, 
Where Cumray's isles with verdant link ' 
Close the fair entrance of the Clyde ; 
The woods of Bute, no more descried, 
Are gone — and on the placid sea 
The rowers'ply their task with glee, 
While hands that knightly lances bore 
Impatient aid the laboring oar. 
The half-faced moon shone dim and pale, 
And glanced against the whiten'd sail ; 
But on that rucldy beacon-light 
Each steersman kept the helm aright, 
And oft, for such ihe King's command,. 
That all at once might reach the strand, 
From boat to boat loud shout and hail 
Warn'd them to crowd or slacken sail. 
South and by west the armada bore. 
And near at length the Carrick shore. 
As less and less the distance grows, 
High and more high the beacon rose ; 
The light, that seem'd a twinkling star, 
Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far. 
Dark-red the heaven above it glow'd, 
Dark-red the sea beneath it flow'd, 
Red rose tiie rocks on ocean's brim, 
In blood-red light her islets swim ; 
Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave, 
Dropp'd from their crags on plashing wave; 
The deer to distant covert drew, 
The black-cock deem'd it day, and crew. 
Like some tall castle given to flame, 
O'er iiaif the land the lustre came. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



289 



* Now, good my Liege, and brother sage, 
What think ye of mine eliin page? '' — 
" Row on ! " the nobie King repHed, 
" We'll learn the truth whate'er betide; 
Yet sure the beadsman and the child 
Could ne'er have waked that beacon wild." 



vVitr; that the boats approach'd the land, 

But Edward's grounded on ibc: sand ; 

The eager Knight leap'd m thj sea 

Waist-deep, and first on shore was he, 

Though every barge's hardy band 

Contended which should gain the land, 

When that strange light, which, seen afar, 

Seem'd steady as the polar star, 

Now, like a prophet's fiery chai/, 

Seem'd travelling the realms of air. 

Wide o'er the sky the splendo- glows, 

As that portentous meteor rose , 

Helm, axe, and falchiun gl.tter'd bright, 

And in the red and dusky light 

His C(mirade's face each warrior saw, 

Nor marveli'd ii was pale with awe. 

Then high in air the beams were lost. 

And darkness sunk upon the coast. — 

Ronald to Heaven a prayer address'd, 

And Douglas cross'd his dauntless breast ; 

" Saint James protect us ! '' Lennox cried, 

But reckless Edward spoke aside, 

" Deem'st thou, Kirkpatrick, in that flame, 

Red Comyn's angry spirit came, 

Or would thy dauntless heart endure 

Once more to make assurance sure ? " 

* Hush! "said the Bruce, " we soon shall 

know, 
If this be sorcerer's empty show, 
Or stratagem of southern foe. 
The moon shines out — upon the sand 
Lee every leader rank his band." 



Faintly the moon's pale beams supply 
That ruddy light's unnatural dj'e ; 
The dubious cold reflection lay 
On the wet sands and quiet bay. 
Beneath the rocks King Robert drew 
His scattered files to order due, 
Till shield compact and serried spear 
In the cool light shone blue and clear. 
Then down a path that sought the tide, 
That speechless page was seen to glide ; 
He knelt him lowly on the sand, 
And gave a scroll to Robert's hand. 
" A torch," the Monarch cried, " What h 
Now shall we Cuthbert's tidings know." 



But evil news the letters bare, 

The Clifford's force was strong and ware. 

Augmented, too, that very morn. 

By mountaineers who came with Lorn. 

Long harrow'd by oppressor's hand, 

Courage and faith had fled the land. 

And over Carrick, dark and deep. 

Had sunk dejection's iron sleep. — 

Cuthbert had seen that bcncon-flamc. 

Unwitting from what source it came. 

Doubtful of perilous event, 

Edward's mute messenger he sent. 

If Bruce dcce-<'pd should venture o'er, 

To warn him from the fatil shore. 

XVI. 

As round the torch the lerders crowd, 

Bruce read thes . chilling nev s rJoud. 

'• What co..nsei nobles, ha'e we n6v«? — 

To ambush us in r.reenvxood bough, 

And take the chance wn.cn late may send 

To bring our enterprise to end, 

Or shall we turn iis to the main 

As exiles, and embark again ?" — 

Answer'd fierce Edward, " Hap what may, 

In Carrick, Carrick's Lord must stay. 

I would not minstrels told the tale. 

Wildfire or rneteor made us quail." — 

Answer'd the Douglas, " If my Liege 

May win yon walls by stoim or siege. 

Then were each brave and patriot heart 

Kindled of new for loyal part." — 

Answer'd Lord Rrnald, " Not for shame 

Would I that aged Torquil came. 

And found, for all our empty boast, 

Without a blnw we fled the coast. 

I will not credit that this land, 

So famed for warlike heart and band, 

The nurse of Wallace and of Bruce, 

Will long with tyrants hold a truce." — 

" Prove we our fate — the brunt we'll bide 1 " 

So ]3oyd and Haye and Lennox cried , 

So said, so vow'd, th : ler.ders all ; 

So Bruce resolved : '• And in my hall 

Since the Bold J^outhern make their homo, 

The hour of payment soon shall come, 

When w.th a it ''^h and rug^^ed host 

Clifford may reckon to his cost. 

Meant me, through well-known bosk and 

dell. 
Til lead where we may shelter well." 



Now ask you whence that wondrous light, 
Whose fairy i^low beguiled their sight I — 
It nc"er w.us known -5 — yet gi ai'-liair'd eld 
A superstitious cxcdcuge Usid, 



£9© 



SCO TT'S FOE TIC A L V/ORKS. 



That never did a mortal hand 
Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand ; 
Nay, and that on the self-same night 
When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleams the 

light. 
Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor, 
And -littering wave and crimson"d shore — 
But whether beam celestial lent 
By Heaven to aid the King's descent, 
Or fire heil-kind'.ed from beneath, 
To lure him to defeat and death. 
Or were ^t bin s :m2 rretoor strange, 
Of such as oft through midnight r:.nge. 
Startling the traveller 1: te ?.nd lone, 
I kno'v not- and .i ne er was known. 

XVIII. 

Now up the rocky pass they drew, 
And Ron "lid, to his promise true, 
Still made his arm the stripling's etay, 
To a.d nim on the rugged way. 
" Now cheer thee, simple Amadine ! 
Why throbs that silly heart of thine ? " — 
— That name the pirates to their slave 
(In Gaelic 'tis the Chmgeling) gave — 
" Dost thou not rest thee on my arm ? 
Do not my plaid-folds hold thee warm ? 
Hath not the wild bull's treble hide 
This targe for thee and me supplied ? 
Is not Clan-Colla's sword of steel ? 
And, trembler, canst thou terror feel! 
Cheer thee, and still that throbbing heart ; 
From Ronald's guard thou shalt not part." 
— O ! many a shaft, at random sent, 
Finds mark the archer little meant! 
And many a word, at random spoken, 
May soothe or wound a heart that's broken ! 
Half soothed, iialf grieved, half terrified, 
Close drew the page to Ronald's side; 
A wild delirious thrill of joy 
Was in that hour of agony. 
As up the ste:py pass he strove. 
Fear, toil, and sorrow, lost in love I 

XIX. 
The barrier ut that .ron shore, 
'The rock's steep 'edge, .s nov.- climb'd o'er ; 
And from the cabtle's distant wall, 
From tower to tower the w irders call : 
The sound swuigs over land and sea, 
And marks a watchful enemy. — 
They gain'd the Chase, a wide domain 
Left for the Castle's sylvan reign, 
(Seek not the scene— the axe, the plough, 
The boor's dull fence, have marr'd it now,) 
But then, soft swopt in velvet green 
Th« plain With many a jlade between. 



Whose tangled alleys far invade 
The depth of the brown forest shade. 
Here the tall fern obscured the lawn, 
Fair shelter for the sportive fawn, 
There, tufted close with copsewood green. 
Was many a swelling hillock seen ; 
And all around was verdure meet 
For pr3ss;ire of the fairies' feet. 
The glo.-sy holly loved the park. 
The yew-tree lent its shadow dark. 
And many an old oak, worn and bare, 
With ail its shiver'd boughs, was there. 
Lovely between, the moonbeams fell 
On lawn and hil'ocK, glade and dell. 
The gallant Monarch sigh d to see 
These glades so loved .n chi'.dh jcd free. 
Bethinking chat, as i utiaw now, 
He ranged bjneath the forest bough. 



Fast o'er the moonlight Chase they sped, 
Well knew the band that measured tread. 
When, in retreat or in advance. 
The serried warriors move at once ; 
And evil were the luck, if -dawn 
Descried them on the open lawn. 
Copses they traverse, brooks they cross, 
Strain up the bank and o'er the moss. 
From the exhausted page's brow 
Cold drops of toil are streaming iv3W ; 
With effort faint and lengthen'd pause. 
His weary step the stripling draws. 
" Nay, droop not yet ! " the warrior said ; 
" Come, let me give thee ease and aid ! 
Strong are mine arms, and little care 
A weight so slight as thine to bear. — 
What ! wilt though not ?— capricious boy ! 
Then thine own limbs and strength emiilojR 
Pass but this night, and pass thy care, 
I'll place thee with a lady fair, 
Where thou shalt tune thy lute to tell 
How Ronald loves fair Isabel ! " 
Worn out, dishearten'd,and dismay'd, 
Here Armadine let go the plaid : 
His trembling limbs their aid refuse. 
He sunk among the midnight dewsl 

XXI, 
What may be done ;— the night is gon 
The Bruce's band moves swiftly on — 
Eternal shame, if at the brunt 
Lord Ronald grace not battle's front 1 
" See yonder oak, within whose trunk 
Decay a daricen'd cell hath sunk ; 
Enter and rest thee there a space, 
Wrapt in my plaid thy limbs, thy tace 
1 will not be, believe me, far ; 
\ But must not quit the rank* cf war. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



29s 



Well will I mark the bosky bourne, 

And soon, to guard thee hence, return. — 

Nay, weep not so, thou simple boy ! 

But sleep in peace, and wake in joy," 

In sylvan lodging close bestow'd, 

He placed the page, and onward strode 

With strength put forth, o'er moss and 

brook, 
And soon the marching band o'crtook. 

XXII. 
Thus strangely left, long sobb'd and wept 
The page, till, wearied out, he slept — 
A rough voice waked his dream — " Nay, 

here. 
Here by this thicket, pass'd the deer — 
Beneath that oak old Ryno staid — 
What have we here ? — a Scottish plaid, 
And in its folds a stripling laid ? — 
Come forth ! thy name and business tell ! — 
What, silent? — then I guess thee well, 
The spy that sought old Cuthbcrt's cell, 
Wafted from Arran yester morn — 
Come, comrades, we will straight return. 
Our Lord may choose the rack should 

teach 
To this young lurcher use of speech. 
Thy bow-string till I bind him fast." — 
*' Nay, but he weeps and stands aghast j 
Unbound we'll lead him, fear it not ; 
'Tis a fail stripling, though a Scot." 
The hunters to the castle sped, 
And there the hapless captive led. 



Stout Clifford in the castle-court 
Prepared him for the morning sport; 
And now with Lorn held deep discourse, 
Now gave command for hound and horse. 
War steeds and palfreys paw'd the ground. 
And many a deer-dog howl'd around. 
To Amp.dine, Lorn's well known word 
Replying to tnat Southern Lord, 
Mix'd with this clanging din, might seem 
The phantasm of a fever'd dream. 
The tone upon his ringing ears 
Came like th? sound which fancy hears, 
When in rude waves or roaring winds 
Som^ words of woe the muser finds, 
Until mor- loudly and more near, 
Their speech arrests the page's ear. 

XXIV. 

" And was she thus," said Clifford, " lost? 
The priest should rue it to his cost ! 
What says the monk ? "— " The holy Sire 
Owns, that in masquer's quaint attire 



She sought his skiff, disguised, unknowr 

T > all except to him alone. 

But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn 

Laid them aboard that very mom, 

And pirates seized ner for their pre/. 

H: proffer'd ransom gold to pay, 

And they agreed — but ere told o'er. 

The winds blew loud, the billows roar; 

They sever'd, and they met no more. 

He deems— such tempest vex'd the coast— -, 

Ship, crew, and fugitivj were lost. 

So let it be, with the disgrace 

And scandal of her lefty race ! 

Thrice better she had ne'er been born, 

Than brought her infamy on .Lornl" 



Lord Clifford now the captive spied ; — 
"Whom, Herbert, hast thou there?" he 

cried. 
" A spy we seized within the Chase, 
A hollow oak his lurking-place." — 
" What tidings can the youth afford ? "- 
" He plays the mute." — " Then noose a 

cord — 
Unless brave Lorn reverse the doom 
For his plaid's sake." — " Clan-Colla's 

loom," 
Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace 
Rather the vesture than the face, 
" Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine ; 
Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine. 
Give him, if my advice you crave, 
His own scathed oak ; and let him wave 
In air, unless, by terror wrung, 
A frank confession find his tcngue. — 
Nor shall he die without his rite ; 
— Thou, Angus Roy, attend the sight. 
And give Clan-Colla's dirge thy breath. 
As they convey him to his death." — 
" O brother ! cruel to the last ! " 
Through the poor captive's bosom pass'd 
The thought, but, to his purpose true. 
He said not, though he sigh'd, " Adieu ! " 

XXVI. 

And will he keep his purpose still, 

In sight of that last closing ill. 

When one poor breath, one single word, 

May freedom, safety, life afford ? 

Can he resist the instinctive call. 

For life that bids us barter all ? — 

Love, strong as death, his heart haA 

.■steel' d. 
His n-erves ha^h strung — he will not yield 1 
Sin-:o tb«it pool breath, that little word, 
M»> yicUl Lord Ronald to the sword.— 



292 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Clan-Colla's dirge is pealing wide, 

The grisly Iieadsman's by his side; 

Along the greenwoad Chase they bend, 

And now their march has ghastly end! 

That old and shatter'd oak beneath, 

They destine for the place of death. 

— What thoughts are his, while all in 

vain 
His eye for aid explores the plain ? 
What thoughts, while, with a dizzy ear. 
He hears the death-prayer mutter'd near? 
And must he die such death accurst, 
Or will that bosom-secret burst ? 
Cold on his brow breaks terror's dew, 
His trembling lips are livid blue ; 
The agony of parting life 
Has naught to match that moment's strife! 

XXVII. 

But other witnesses are nigh, 

Who mock at fear, and death defy ! 

Soon as the dire lament was play'd, 

It waked the lurking ambuscade. 

The Island Lord look'd forth, and spied 

The cause, and loud in fury cried, 

■* By Heaven, they lead the page to die. 

And mock me in his agony! 

They shal. abye it ! " — On his arm 

Bruce laid strong grasp, "They shall not 

harm 
A ringlet of the stripling's hair ; 
But, till I givj the word, forbear. 

— Douglas, lead fifty of our force 
Up yonder hollow water-ccurse. 
And couch thee midway on the wold, 
Between the flyers and fheir hold: 

A spear above the ccpse display'd, 
Be signal of the ambush made. 

— Edward, with forty spearmen, itralght 
Through yonder copse approach the gate. 
And, when thcu hear'st the battle-din, 
Rush forward, and the passage win. 
Secure the drawbridge — storm the port, 
And man and guard the castle-court. — 
The rest move slowly forth with me, 

In shelter of the forest-tree, 
Till Douglas at his post I see." 

XXVIII. 

Like war-dogs eager to rush on, 
Compell'd to wait the signal blown. 
Hid, and scarce hid, by greenwood bough, 
Trembling with rage, stands Ronald now. 
And in his grasp his sword gleams blue, 
Soon to be dyed with deadlier hue. — 
Meanwhile the Bruce, with steady eye, 
S«es tlie dark death-train moving by, 



And, heedful, measures oft the space 

The Douglas and his band must trace. 

Ere they can reach their destined ground. 

Now sinks the dirge's wailing sound. 

Now cluster round the direful tree 

That slow and solemn company, 

While hymn mistuned and mutter'd 

prayer 
The victim for his fate prepare. — 
What glances o'er the greenwood shade ? 
The spear that marks the ambuscade. 
" Now, noble Chief ! 1 leave thee loose ; 
Upon them, Ronald ! " said the Bruce. 

XXIX. 

" The Bruce, the Bruce 1 " to well-known 

cry 
His native rocks and woods reply. 
" The Bruce, the Bruce ! " in that dread 

word 
The knell of hundred deaths was heard. 
The astonish'd Southern gazed at first, 
Where the wild tempest was to burst. 
That waked in that presaging name. 
Before, behind, around it came ! 
Half-arm'd, surprised, on every side 
Hemm'd in, hew'd down, they bled and 

died. 
Deep in the ring the Bruce engaged. 
And fierce Clan-Colla's broadsword raged I 
Full soon the few who fought were sped, 
Nor better was their lot who fled, 
And met, 'mid terror's wild career. 
The Douglas's redoubted spear I 
Two hundred yoemen on that morn 
The castle left, and none return. 

XXX. 

Not on their flight press' d Ronald's brand, 

A gentler duty claim'd his hand. 

He raised the page, where on the plain 

His fear had sunk him with the slain : 

And twice, that morn, surprise well near 

Betray'd the secret kept by fear ; 

Once, when, with life returning, came 

To the boy's Up Lord R< nald's name, 

And hardly recollecti. n drown'd 

The accents in a murmuring sound : 

And once, when scarce he ctuld resist 

The Chieftain's care to loose the vest, 

Drawn tightly o'er his laboring breast. 

But tlien the Bruce's bugle blew, 

For martial work was yet to do. 

XXXI. 

A harder task fierce Edward waits. 
Ere signal given, the castle gates 
His fury had assail'd ; 



THE LOhD OF THE ISLES. 



293 



the 



Such was his wonted reckless mood, 
Yet desperate valor oft made good, 
Even by its darmg, venture rude, 

Where prudence might have fail'd. 
Upon the bridge his strength he threw, 
And struck the iron chain in two, 

By which its planks arose ; 
The warder next his axe's edge 
Struck down upon the threshold ledge, 
'Twixt door and post a ghastly wedge ! 

The gate they may not close. 
Well fought the Southern in the fray, 
Clifford and Lorn fought well that day 
But stubborn Edward forced his way 

Against a hundred foes. 
Loud came the cry, " The Bruce, 

Bruce!" 
No hope or in defence or truce, 

Fresh combatants pour in ; 
Mad with success, and drunk with gore, 
They drive the struggling foe before, 

And ward on ward they win. 
Unsparing was the vengeful sword, 
And limbs were lopp'c? and life-blood 

pour'd, 
The cry of death and conflict roar'd. 

And fearful was the din ! 
The startling horses plunged and flung, 
Clamor'd the dogs till turrets rung, j 

Nor sunk the fearful cry, t 

Till not a fosman was there found 1 

Alive, save those who on the ground 1 

Groan'd m their agony ! j 

XXXII. 

The valiant Clifford is no more : ' 

On Ronald's broadsword stream'd his gore, ( 



But better hap had he of Lorn, 
Who, by the foemen backward borne, 
Yet gain'd with slender train the port, 
Where lay his bark beneath the fort. 

And cut the cable loose. 
Short were his shrift in that debate, 
That hour of fury and of fate, 

?.f Lorn encounterd Bruce ! 
Then long and lovd the victor shout 
iF.om tun-et and from tower rung out, 

The rugged vaults replied ; 
And from the donjon tower on high, 
The men of Carrick may descry 
Saint Andrew/s cross, in blazonry 

Of silver, waving wide ! 

XXXIII. 

The Bruce hath won his father's hall 136 
— " Welcome, brave friends and comrades all* 

Welcome to mirth and joy [ 
The first, the last, is welcome here, 



From lord and chieftain, prmce and peer. 

To this poor speechless boy. 
Great God ! once more my sire's abode 
Is mine - behold the floor 1 trode 

'.n tottering infancy 1 
And there the vau'.ted arch, whose sound 
Kchoed my joyous shout and bound 
In boyhood, and that rung around 

To youth's unthinking glee ! 
O first, to thee, all-gracious Heaven, 
Then to my friends, my thanks b« 

given ! " — 
He paused a space, his brow he cross'd — 
Then on the board his sword he toss'd, 
Yet steaming hot ; with Southern gore 
From hilt to point 'twas cnms.n'd o'er. 

XXXIV. 

'* Bring here," he said, " the mazers four,* 

My noble fathers loved of yore. 

Thrice let them circle round th? board, 

The pledge, fair Scotland's rights restored I 

."Xnd he whose lip shall touch the wine, 

Without a vow as true as mine, 

To hold both lands and life at nought. 

Until her freedom shall be bought, — 

De brand of a disloyal Scot, 

And lasting infamy his lot ! 

Sit, gentle friends ! our hour of glee 

Is brief, we'll spend it joyously ! 

Blithest of ail the sun's bright bi?ams, 

When betwixt storm and storm he gleams. 

Well is our .country's work begun, 

But more, far more, must yet be done. 

Speed messengers the country through ; 

Arouse old friends, and gather new; 

\\%rn Lanark's knights to gird their mail, 

Rouse the brave sons of Teviotdale, 

Let Ettrick's archer's sharp their darts. 

The fairest forms, the truest hearts ! 

Call all, call all ! from Reedswair-Path I 

To the wild confines of Cape- Wrath ; 

Wide let the news through Scotland ring,— 

The Northern Eagle claps his wing 1 " 



CANTO SIXTH. 



WHO, that shared them, ever shall for- 
get 

The emotions of the spirit-rousing time. 

When breathless in the mart the couriers 
met. 

Early and late, at evening and at prime ; 



* The mazers/our, large drinking cupc, 
gobleta. 



'^94 



scorrs poetical works. 



When the loud cannon and the merry- 
chime 

Hail'd news on news, as field on field was 
won ! 

When Hope, long doubtful, soar'dat length 
sublime, 

And our glad eyes, awake as day begun, 
Watch'd Joy's broad banner rise, to meet 
thj rising sun ! 

O these were hours, when thrilling joy re- | 

paid 
A long, I jng course of darkness, doubts, 

and fears ! 
The heart-sick faintness of the hope de- 

lay'd, 
The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and | 

the tears, \ 

That track'd with terror twenty rolling j 

years, • | 

All was forgot in that blithe jubilee ! | 

Her downcast eye even pale Affliction 

rears, 
To sigh a thankful prayer, amid the gleej 
That hail'd the Despot's fall, and peace and 

liberty ! 

Such news o'er Scotland's hills triumph- 
ant rode, 

When 'gainst the invaders turn'd the bat- 
tle's scale, 

When, Bruce's banner had victorious 
flow'd 

O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in Ury's 
vale : ^" 

When English blood oft deluged Douglas- 
dale,38 

And fierv Edward routed stout St. 
John,39 

When Randolph's war-cry swell'd the 
Southern gale,*° 

And many a fortress, town, and tower, was 
won, 
And Fame still sounded forth fresh deeds 
of glory done. 



Blithe tidings flew from baron's tower, 
To jjeasant's cot, to forest bower, 
A.nd waked the solitary cell, 
Where lone St. Bride's recluses dwell. 
Princess no more, fair Isabel, 

A vot'ress of the order now, 
Say, did the rule that bid thee wear 
Dim veil and woollen scapulaire, 
And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair, 

Tliat stern and rigid vow, 



D'.d '.t condemn the transport high, 
Which glisten'd in thy watery eye. 
When nr^nstrel or when palmer told 
Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold ? — 
And whose the lovely form, that shares 
Thy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy prayers 
No sister she of convent shade ! 
So say these locks m lengthen'd braid, 
So say the blushes and the sighs. 
The tremors that unbidden rise. 
When, mingled with the Bruce's fame, 
The brave Lord Ronald's praises came. 

III. 
Believe, his father's castle won. 
And his bold enterprise begun. 
That Bruce's earliest cares restore 
The speechless page to Arran's shore : 
Nor think that long the quaint disguise 
Conceal'd her from her sister's eyes ; 
And sister-like in love they dwell 
In that lone convent's silent cell. 
There Bruce's slow assent allows 
Fair Isabel the veil and vows ; 
And there, her sex's dress regained, 
The lovely Maid of Lorn remain'd. 
Unnamed, unknown, while Scotland far 
Resounded with the din of war ; 
And many a month, and many a day, 
In calm seclusion wore away 

IV. 

These days, these months, to years had 

worn. 
When tidings of high weight were borne 

To tint lone island's shore ; 
Of all the Scottish conquests made 
By the First Edward's ruthless blade, 

His son retair'd no more, 
Northward of Tweed, but Stirhng's towers, 
Beleaguer'd b^ Kmg Robert's powers ; 

And they to 'k term of truce,*' 
If England's Kmg should not relieve 
The siege ere John the Baptist's eve, 

To yield them to ch; Bruce. 
England was roused — en every side 
Courier and post and he.-iJd h'.ed, 

To summon prince and peer, 
At Berwick-bounds to meet their Liege, 
Prepared to raise fair Stirling's siege. 

With buckler, brand, and spear. 
The term was nigh— they mu^ter'd fast. 
By beacon and by bugle-blast 

Forth marshal! 'd for the field; 
There rode each knight of noble name, 
There England's hardy archers came, 
The land they trode seem'd all on flaou;^ 

With banner, blade, and shield I 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



29s 



And not famed England's powers alone, 
Renown'd in arms, the summons own ; 

For Neustria's knights obey'd, 
Gascogne hath lent her horsemen good, 
And Cambria, but of late subdued. 
Sent forth her mountain multitude,*^ 
And Connoght pour'd from waste and 

wood 
Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude 

Dark Eth O'Connor sway'd."*-^ 



That gave hmi, with her last farewell, 
The charge of Sister Isabel, 
To think upon thy better right, 
And keep the faith his premise plight. 
Forgive him for thy sister's sake, 
At first if vain repinings wake- - 

Long since that mood is gone : 
Now dwells he on thy. juster claims, 
And oft his breach of faith h^ blames — 

Forgive him for thine own i '' 



Right to devoted Caledon 

The storm of war rolls slowly on, 

With menace deep and dread ; 
So the dark clouds, with gathering power, 
Suspend awhile the threaten' d shower, 
Till every peak and summit lower 

Round the pale pilgrmi's head. 
Not with such pilgrim's startled eye 
King Robert mark'd the tempest nigh 1 

Resolved the brunt to bide, 
His royal summons warn'd the land, 
That all who own'd their King's com- 
mand 
Should instant take the spear and brand, 

To combat at his side. 
O who may tell the sons of fame, 
That at King Robert's bidding came, 

To battle for the right ! 
From Cheviot to the shores of Ross, 
Frcar, Soiway-Sands to Marshal's-Moss, 

All boun'd them for the fight. 
Such news the royal courier tells, 
Who came to rouse dark Arran's dells • 
But farther tidings must the ear 
Of Isabel in secret hear. 
These in her cloister walk, next morn. 
Thus shared she with the Maid of Lorn. 



^ 



" My Edith, can I tell how dear 
Our intercourse of hearts sincere 

Hath been to Isabel ? — 
udge then the sorrow of my heart, 

hen 1 must say the words. We part! 

The cheerless convent-cell 
Was not, sweet maiden, made for thee ; 
Go thou where thy vocation free 

On happier fortunes fell. 
Nor, Edith, judge thyself betray'd. 
Though Robert knows that Lorn's high 

Maid 
And his poor silent page were one. 
Versed in the fickle heart of man. 
Earnest and anxious hath he look'd 
How Ronald's heart the message brook'd 



" No ! never to Lord Ronald's bower 

Will I again as paramour " 

" Nay, hush thee, too impatient maid, 
Until my final tale be said ! — 
The good King Robert would engage 
Edith once more his elfin page, 
By her own heart, and her own eye. 
Her lover's penitence to try — 
Safe in his roj'al charge, and free, 
Should such thy finixi purpose be, 
Again unknown to seek the cellj 
And live and die with Isabel." 
Thus spoke the ma d — King Robert's eye 
Might have som? glance of policy; 
Dunstaffnagc iiad the monarch ta'en, 
And Lorn had own'd King Robert's reign. 
Her brother had tc England fled, 
And there in banishment was dead ; 
Ample, through exile, death, and flight, 
O'er tower and land was Edith's right ; 
This ample right o'er tower and land 
Were safe in Ronald's faithful hand. 

VIII. 

Embarrass'd eye and blushing cheek 
Pleasure, and shame, and fear bespeak. 
Yet much the reasoning Edith made : 
" Her sister's faith she must upbraid. 
Who gave such secret, dark and dear, 
In counsel to another's ear. 
Why should she leave the peaceful cell ?— • 
How should she part with Isabel ? — 
How wear that strange attire agen .'' — 
How risk herself 'midst martial men ? — 
And how be guarded on the way ? — 
At least she might entreat delay." 
Kind Isabel, with secret smile, 
Saw and forgave the maiden's wile, 
Reluctant to be thought to move 
At the first call of truant love. 

IX. 

Oh, blame her not !— when zephyrs wake, 
The aspen's trembling leaves must slake ; 



igd 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When beams the sun through April's 

shower, 
It needs must bloom, the violet flower ; 
And Love, howe'er the maiden strive, 
Must with reviving hope revive I 
A thousand soft excuses came,-- 
To plead his cause 'gainst virgin shame. 
Pledged by their sires in earliest youth. 
He had her plighted faith and truth — 
Then, 'twas her Liege's strict command, 
And she, beneath his royal hand, 
A ward in person and in land : • 
And, last, she was resolved to stay 
Only brief space — one little day — 
Close hidden in her safe disguise 
From all, but most from Ronald's eyes — 
But once to see him more i — nor blam^^ 
Her wish — to hear him name her name i — 
Then, to bear back to solitude 
The thought he had his falsehood rued ! 
But Isabel, who long had seen 
Her pallid cheek and pensive mien, 
And well herself the cause might know, 
Though innocent, of Edith's woe, 
Joy'd, generous, that revolving time 
Gave means to expiate the crime. 
High glow'd her bosom as she said, 
*■ Well shall her sufferings be repaid I" 
Now came the parting hour — a band 
From Arran's mountains left the land; 
Their chief, Fitz-Louis, had the cave 
The speechless Amadine to bear 
Tc Bruce, with honor, as behoved 
To page the monarch dearly loved. 

X. 

The King had deem'd the maiden bright 

Should reach hur. iong before the tight, 

But storms and fate her course delay : 

It was on eve of battle-day : 

When o'er the Gillie's-hill she rode. 

The landscape like a furnace glow'd, 

And far as e'er the eye was borne, 

The lances waved like autumn-corn. 

In battles four beneath their eye. 

The forces of King Robert lie. 

And one tselow the hill was laid, 

Reserved for rescue and for aid ; 

And three, advanced, form'd vaward-jine, 

'Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's 

shrine. 
Detach'd was each, yet each so nigh 
^s well might mutual aid supply, 
B3ycnd, the Southern host appears, 
A boundless wilderness of spears, 
Wliosc verge or rear the an.xious eye 
Strove far, but strove m vain, to spy. 



Thick flashing in the evening beam, 
' Glaives, lances, bills, and banners gleam ; 

And where the heaven join'd with the hill 
1 Was distant armor flashing still. 

So wide, so far, the boundless host 

Seem'd in the blue horizon lost. 



Down from the hill the maiden pass'd, 
At the wild sliow of war aghast ; 

I And traversed first the rearward host, 
Reserved for aid where needed most. 

j The men of Carnck and ot Ayr, 

f Lennox and Lanark, too, were there, 

I And all the western land ; 

[ With these the valiant of the Isles 

j Beneath their chieftains rank'd their files, 

j in many a plaided band. 

j There, m the centre, proudly raised, 
The Bruce's royal standard blazed. 
And tnere Lord Ronald's banner bore 
A galley driven by sail and oar. 
A wild, }-et pleasing contrast, made 
Warrior's m mai! and plate array'd, 
With the plumed bonnet and the plaid 

By these Hebrideans worn ; 
But O ! unseen for three long years, 
Dear was the garb of mountaineers 

To the fair Maid c f Lorn ! 
For one she look'd — but he was far 
Busied amid the ranks of war — 
Yet with affection's troubled eye 
She mark'd his banner boldly fly, * 

Gave on the countless foe a glance, • 
And thought on battle's desperate chance. 

XII. 

I To centre of the vaward-hne 
j Fitz-Louis guided Amadine. 



Arm'd all on foot, that host appears 



A serried mass of glimmering spears, 
I There stood the Marchers' "U'ariike band, 
} The warriors there of Lcdon's land ; 
Ettrick and Liddell bent the yew, 
A band of archers fierce, though few ; 
Ths men of Nith and Annan's vale, 
And the bold Spears of Teviotdale;— 
j Tlie dauntless Dou^-las these obey. 
I And the young Stuart's "entle sway. 
j North-eastward by Saint Ninian's shrine, 
Beneath fierce Randolph's charge, combing 
The warriors whom the hardy North 
From Tay to Sutherland sent forth. 
The rest of Scotland's war-array 
With Edward Bruce to westward lay, 
Where Bannock, with his broken bank 
And deep ravine, protects their flank. 
Behind them, screen'd by sheltering wow^ 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



297 



The gallant Kdth, Lord Marshal, stood : 
His men-at-arms bear mace and lance, 
And plumes that wave, and helms that glance. 
Thus fair divided by the King, 
Centre, and right, and left-ward wing, 
Composed his front ; nor distant far 
Was strong reserve to aid the war. 
And 'twas to front of this array, 
wHer guide and Edith made their way. 



'Here must they pause ; for, in advance 

As far as one might pitch a lance, 

The monarch rode along the van,-** 

The foe's approaching force to scan, 

His line to marshal and to range, 

And ranks to square, and fronts to change. 

Alone he rode — from head to heel 

Sheathed in his ready arms of steel ; 

Nor mounted yet on war-horse wight, 

But, till more near the shock of fight, 

Reining a palfrey low and light. 

A diadem of gold was set 

Above his bright steel basiYiet, 

And clasp'd within its glittering twine 

Was seen the glove of Argentine ; 

Truncheon or leading staff he lacks, 

Bearing, instead, a battle-axe. 

He ranged his soldiers for the fight, 

Accoutred thus, in open sight 

Of either host— Three bowshots far, 

Paused the deep front of England's war, 

And rested on their arms awhile, 

To close and rank their warlike file, 

And hold high council, if that night 

Should view the strife, or dawning light. 

XIV. 

O gay, yet fearful to behold, 

Flashing with steel and rough with gold. 

And bristled o'er with bills and spears, 
With plumes and pennons waving fair, 
Was tliat bright battle-front ! for there 

Rode England's King and peers : 
And who, that saw that monarch ride, 
His kingdom battled by his side, 
Could then his direful doom foretell !^ 
Fair was his seat in knightly selle, 
And in his sprightly eye was set 
Some spark of the Plantagenet. 
Though light and wandering was his glance, 
It flash'd at sight of shield and lance. 
" Know'st thou," he said, " Dc Argentine, 
Yon knight who marshals thus their line ? " — 
** The tokens on his helmet tell 
The Bruce, my Liege: I know him wp]l." — 



" And shall the audacious traitor brave 
The presence where our banners wave ? "— 
^' So please my Liege," said Argentine, 
*' Were he but horsed on steed like mine, 
To give him fair and knightly chance, 
1 would adventure forth my lance." — 
" In battle-day," the King replied, 
" Nice tourney rules are set aside. 
— Still must the rebel dare our wrath ? 
Set on him — sweep him from our path ! "— 
And, at King Edward's signal, scon 
Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. 

XV, 
Of Hereford's high blood he came, 
A race renown'd for knightly fame. 
He burn'd before his Monarch's eye 
To do some deed of chivalry. 
He spurr'd his steed, lie couch'd his lance, 
And darted on the Bruce at once. 
— As motionless as rocks, that bide 
The wrath of the advancing tide. 
The Bruce stood fast. — Each breast beat 

high. 
And dazzled was each gazing eye — 
The heart had hardly time to think. 
The eyelid scarce had time to wink. 
While on the King, like fiash of flame, 
Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse came I 
The partridge may the falcon mock, 
If that slight palfrey stand the shock — 
But, swerving from the knight's career, 
Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear, 
Onward the baffled warrior bore 
His course — but soon his course was o'er !- 
High in.his stirrups stood the King, 
And gave his battle-axe the swing. 
Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd, 
Fell that stern dint — the first— the last I— 
Such strength upon the blow was put. 
The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut ; 
The axe-shaft, witlvts brazen clasp. 
Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp. 
Springs from the blow the startled horse, 
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse ; 
—First of that fatal field, how soon, 
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune 1 

XVI. 

One pitying glance the Monarch sped, 
Where on the field his foe lay dead ; 
Tlien gently turn'd his palfrey's head, 
And, pacing back his sober way, 
Slowly he gain'd his own array. 
There round their King the leaders crowd, 
And blame his recklessness aloud. 
That risk'd 'gainst each adventurous speai^ 
A life so valued and so dear. 



298 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



His broken weapon's shaft survey'd 
The King, and careless answer made, — 
" My loss may pay my folly's tax ; 
I've broke my trusty battle-axe." 
'Twas then Fitz-Louis, bending low, 
Did Isabel's commission show; 
Edith, disguised at distance stands, 
And hides her blushes with her hands. 
The Monarch's brow has changed its hue, 
Av ay the gory axe he threw, 
W "ile to the seeming page he drew. 

Clearing war's terrors from his eye 
Her hand with gentle ease he took, 
With such a kind protecting look, 

As to a weak and timid boy 
Might speak, that elder brother's care 
And elder brother's love were there. 



" Fear not," he said, " young Amadine ! " 
Then whisper'd, " Still that name be thine. 
Fate plays her wonted fantasy, 
Kind Amadine, with thee and me. 
And sends thee here in doubtful hour. 
But soon we are beyond her power ; 
For on this chosen battle-plain, 
Victor or vanquish'd, I remain 
Do thou to yonder hill repair ; 
The followers of our host are there, 
And all who may not weapons bear. — 
Fitz-Louis, have him in thy care. — 
Joyful we meet, if all go well ; 
if not, in Arran's holy cell 
Thou must take part with Isabel ; 
For brave Lord Ronald, too, hath sworn, 
Not to regain the Maid of Lorn, 
(The bliss on earth he covets most,) 
Would he forsake his battle-post, 
Or shun the fortune that may fall 
To Bruce, to Scotland, and to all— 
But, hark ! some news these trumpets tell ; 
Forgive my haste — farewell ! — farewell ! " — 
And m a lower voice he said, 
" Be of good cheer — farewell, sweet 
maid 1 " — 

XVIII. 

" What tram of dust, with trumpet-sound 
And glimmering spear, is wheeling round 
Our leftward flank ? "—the Monarch cried, 
To Moray's Earl who rode beside. 
" Lo ! round thy station pass the foes! 
Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose;" 
The Earl his visor closed, and said, 
•* iVi y wreath shall bloom, or life shall 
fade.— 



Follow, my household ! " — And they go 
Like lightning on the advancing foe. 
" My Liege," said noble Douglas then, 
" Earl Randolph has but one to ten: 
Let me go forth his band to aid ! " — 
— " Stir not. The error he hath made, 
Let him amend it as he may ; 
I will not weaken mine array." 
Then loudly rose the conflict-cry, 
And Douglas's brave heart swell'd high,— 
" My Liege," he said, "with patient ear 
I must not Moray's death-knell hear ! " — 
" Then go — but speed thee back again." — 
Forth sprung the Douglas v/ith his train : 
But, when they won a rising hill, 
He bade his followers hold them still. — 
" See, see ! the routed Southern fly I 
The Earl hath won the victory. 
Lo I where yon steeds run niasterless, 
His banner towers above the press. 
Rein up ; our presence would impair 
The fame we come too late to share." 
Back to the host the Douglas rode, 
And soon glad tidings are abroad. 
That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain. 
His followers fled with Icosen'd rein. — 
That skirmish closed the busy day, 
And couch'd in battle's prompt array. 
Each army on their weapons lay. 

XIX. 

It was a night of lovely June, 

High rode in cloudless blue the moon, 

Demayet, smiled beneath her ray ; 
Old Stirling's towers arose in light. 
And twined in links of silver bright, 

Her winding river lay. 
Ah, gentle planet ! other sight 
Shall greet thee next returning night. 
Of broken arms and banners tore, 
And marshes dark with human gore, 
And piles of slaughter'd men and horse, 
And Forth that floats th; frequent corse, 
And many a wounded wretch to plain 
Beneath thy silver light in vain ! 
But now, from England's host, the cry 
Thou hear'st of wassail revelry, 
While from the Scottish legions pass 
The murmur'd prayer, the early mass ! — 
Here, numbers had presumption given ; 
There, bands o'er-matched sought aid from 
Heaven. 

XX. 
On Gillie's hill, whose height commands 
The battle-field, fair Edith stands, 
With serf and page unfit for war, 
To eye the cf.nflict from afa». 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



299 



O ! with wlut doubtful agony 
She sees the dawning tint the sky! — 
Now on the Ociiils gleams the sun, 
And glistens now Demayet dun ; 

Is it the lark that carols shtlll ? 
Is it the bittern's early hum ? 

No ! — distant, but mcreasing still, 

The trumpet's sound swells up the hill' 
With the deep murmur of the drum. 
R.esponsive from the Scottish host, 
Pipe-clang and bugle sound were loss'dj'^s 
His breast and brow each soldier cross'd, 

And started from the ground ; 
Arm'd and array'd for instant fight, 
Rose archer, spearman, squire, and knight, 
And in the pomp of battle bright 

The dread battalia frown 'd. 



Now onward, and in open view, 

The countless ranks of England drew, 

Darlc rolling like the ocean-tide, 

When the rough west hath chafed his 

pride, 
And his doep roar sends challenge wide 

To all that bars his way ! 
In front the gallant archers trode, 
The men-at-arms behind them rode, 
And midmost of the phalanx broad 

The Monarch held liis sway. 
Beside him many a war-horse fumes, 
Around him waves a sea of plumes. 
Where many a kniglit in battle known, 
And some who spurs had first braced on. 
And deem'd that fight should see them 
won, 

King Edward's bests obey. 
De Argentine attends lus side. 
With stout De Valence, Pembroke's 

pride. 
Selected champions from the train, 
To wait upon his bridle-rem. 
Upon the Scottish foe he gazed — 
— At once, before his sight amazed, 

Sunk banner, spear, and shield; 
Each weapon-point is downward sent. 
Each warrior to the ground is bent. 
" The rebels, Argentine, repent ! 

For pardon they have kneel'd. " — 
' Aye ! — but they bend to other powers, 
And other pardon sue tlian ours ! 
See where yon bare-foot Abbot stands, 
And blesses them with lifted hands ! "6 
Upon the spot where they have kneel'd, 
These men will die or win the field." — 
— " Then prove we if they die or win ! 
Bid Gloster'-s Earl the fight begin." 



Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high, 

Just as the Northern ranks arose, 
Signal for England's archery 

To lialt and bend their bows. 
Then stepp'd each yeoman forth a pace, 
Glanced at the intervening space, 

And raised his lelt hand high ; 
To the right ear the cords tliey bring— 
— At once ten thousand bow-strings ring, 

Ten thousand arrows fly ! 
Nor paused on the devoted Scot 
The ceaseless fury of their shot ; 

As fiercely and as fast, 
Forth wliistlmg came the gray-goose wing 
As the wild hailstones pelt and ring 

A down December's blast. 
Nor momitain targe of tough bull-hide. 
Nor lowland mail, that storm may bide ; 
Woe, woe to Scotland's banner'd pride, 

If the fell shower may last I 
Upon the right, behind the wood. 
Each by his steed dismounted, stood 

The Scottish chivalry ; — 
With foot in stirrup, hand on mane, 
Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain 
His own keen heart, his eager train. 
Until the archers gain'd the plain ; 

Then, " Mount, ye gallants free ! " 
He cried ; and, vaulting from the ground. 
His saddle every horseman found. 
On high their glittering crests they toss. 
As springs the wild-fire from the moss ; 
The shield hangs down on every breast, 
Each ready lance is in the rest, 

And loud shouts Edward Bruce, — 
" Forth, Marshal ! on the peasant foe 1 
We'll tame the terrors of their bow. 

And cut the bow-string loose 1 " *' 

XXIII. 

Then spurs were dash'd in chargers' flanks 
They rush'd among the archer ranks. 
No spears were there the shock to let. 
No stakes to turn the charge were set. 
And how shall yeoman's armor slight, 
Stand the long lance and mace of might? 
Or wliat may Uieir short swords avail, 
'Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail } 
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung. 
High o'er their heads the weapons swung, 
And shriek and groan and vengeful shout 
Give note of triumph and of rout! 
Awhile, with stubborn iiardihood, 
Their English hearts the strife made good. 
Borne down at length on every side, 
Compell'd to fiight; they scatter wide. — 



300 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee, 
And bound the deer ot Dallom-Lee! 
The broken bows of Bannock's shore 
Shall m the greenwood ring no more ! 
Round Wakefield's merry May-pole now, 
The maids may twine the summer bough, 
May northward look with longing glance, 
For those that wont to lead the dance, 
For the blithe archers look in vain ! 
Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en, 
Pierced 'through, trode down, by thousands 

slain, 
Thry cumber Bannock's bloody plain. 



The King with scorn beheld their flight. 
*' Are these," he said, '"our yeomen wight? 
Each braggart churl could boast before, 
Twelve Scottish lives his bakl'"ic bore !**^ 
Fitter to plunder chase or park, ■ 
Than make a manly foe their mark. — 
Forward, each gentleman and knight ! 
Let gentle blood show generous might, 
And chivalry redeem the fight I" 
To nghtward of the wild affray, 
The field show'd fair and level way ; 

But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care 
Had bored the ground with many a pit, 
Vith turf and brushwood hidden yet, 

That form'd a ghastly snare. 
Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came, 
With spears in rest, and hearts on flame, 

That panted for the shock ! 
With blazing crests and banners spread. 
And trumpet-clang and clamor dread, 
The wide plain thunder' d to their tread, 

As far as Stirling rock. 
Down ! down ! in headlong overthrow. 
Horsemen and horse, the foremost go,''9 

Wild floundering on the field ! 
The first are in destruction's gorge, 
Tiieir followers wildly o'er them urge :- 

The knightly helm and shield. 
The mail, the acton, and the spear. 
Strong hand, high heart, are useless here! 
Loud from the mass confused the cry 
Of dying warriors swells on high. 
And steeds that shriek in agony ! so 
They came like mountain-torrent red, 
That thunders o'er its rocky bed ; 
Th-v broke like that same torrent's wave 
When swallow'd by a darksome cave. 
Billows on billows burst and boil. 
Maintaining still the stern turmoil. 
And to their wild and tortured groan 
Each adds new terrors of his own 1 



Too strong in courage and in might 
Was England yet, to yield the fight. 

Her noblest all are here ; 
Names that to fear were never known, 
Bold Norfolk's Earl De Brotherton, 

And Oxford's famed De Vere. 
There Gloster plied the bloody sword, 
And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford, 

Bottetourt and Sanzavere, 
Ross, Montague, and Mauley, came. 
And Courtenay's pride, and Percy's fame- 
Names known too well in Scotland's war, 
At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar, 
Blazed broader yet in after years, 
At Cressy red and fell Poitiers. 
Pembroke with these, and Argentine, 
Brought up the rearward battle-line. 
With caution o'er the ground they tread, 
Slippery with blood and piled with dead. 
Till hand to hand in battle set. 
The bills with spears and axes met, 
And, closing dark on every side. 
Raged the full contest far and wide. 
Then was the strength of Douglas tried, 
Then proved was Randolph's generous 

pride, 
And well did Stewart's actions grace 
The sire of Scotland's royal race ! 

Firmly they kept their ground ; 
As firmly England onward press'd. 
And down went many a noble crest, 
And rent was many a valiant breast, 

And Slaughter revell'd round. 

XXVI. 

Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set, 
Unceasing blow by blow was met ; 

The groans of those who fell 
Were drown'd amid the shriller clang 
That from the blades and harness rang, 

And in the battle-yell. 
Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot. 
Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot ; 
And O ! amid that waste of life. 
What various motives fired the strife' 
The aspiring Noble bled for fame, 
The Patriot for his country's claim ; 
This Knight his youthful strength to prov«, 
And that to win his lady's love ; 
Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood. 
From habit some, or hardihood. 
But ruffian stern, and soldier good, 

The noble and the slave, 
From various cause the same wild road. 
On the same bloody morning, trode, 

To that dark inn, the grave ! 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



301 



I— 

XXVII. 

The tug of strife to flag begins, 
Though neither loses yet nor wins. 
High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust, 
And feebler speeds the blow and' thrust. 
Douglas leans on his war-sword now, 
And Randolph wipes his bloody brow ; 
Nor less had toil'd each Southern knight, 
From morn till mid-day in the fight. 
StrT>ng Egremont for air must gasp, 
Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp, 
And Montague must quit his spear, 
And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vcrc ! 
The blows of Berkley fall less fast, 
And gaMant Pembroke's bugle-blast 

Hath lost its lively tone ; 
Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word, 
And Percy's shout was fainter heard, 

" My merry-men, fight on ! " 

XXVIII. 

Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye, 
The slackening of the storm could spy. 
" One effort more, and Scotland's free ! 
Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee 

Is firm as Ailsa Rock ; ^^ 
Rush on with Highland sword and 

targe, 
I with my Carrick spearmen charge ; 

Now, forward to the shock ! " 
At once the spears were forward tb.rown, 
Against the sun the broadswords shone ; 
The pibroch lent its maddening tone. 
And loud King Robert's voice was 

known — 
" Carrick, press on — they fail, they fail ! 
Press on, brave sons of Innisgail, 

The foe is fainting fast ! 
Each strike for parent, child, and wife, 
For Scotland, liberty, and life, — 

The battle cannot last ! " 



The fresh and desperate onset bore 
The foes three furlongs back and more, 
Leaving their noblest in their gore. 

Alone, De Argentine 
Yet bears on high his red-cross shield, 
Gathers the relics of the field, 
Renews the ranks where they have reel'd, 

And still makes good the line. 
Brief strife, but fierce, — his efforts raise 
A bright but momentary blaze. 
Fair Edith heard the Southron shout, 
Beheld them turning from the rout, 
Heard the wild call their trumpets sent, 
In notes 'twixt triumph and lanient. 



That rallying force, combined anew, 
Appear'd in her distracted view, 

To hem the Islesmen round ; 
" O God ! the combat they renew, 

And is no rescue found ! 
And ye that look thus tamely on, 
And see your native land o'crthrown, 
O ! are your hearts of flesh or stone ? " 

XXX. 

The multitude that watch 'd afar, 
Rejected from the ranks of war. 
Had not unmoved beheld the fight, ^ 

When strove the Bruce for Scotland's 

right ; 
Each heart had caught the patriot spark, 
Old man and stripling, priest and clerk, 
Bondsman and serf ; even female hand 
Stretched to the hatchet or the brand ; 
But, when mute Amadine they heard 
Give to their zeal his signal-word, 

A frenzy fired the throng ; 
" Portents and miracles impeach 
Our sloth — the dumb our duties teach — 
And he that gives the mute his speech, 
Can bid the weak be strong. 
To us, as to our lords, are given 
A native earth, a promised heaven ; 
To us, as to our lords, belongs 
The vengeance for our nation's wrongs ; 
The choice 'twixt death or freedom, warms 
Our breasts as theirs — To arms, to arms ! " 
To arms they flew, — axe, club, or spear, — 
And mimic ensigns high they rear/2 
And, like a banner'd host afar, 
Bear down on England's wearied war. 



Already scatter'd o'er the plain. 
Reproof, command, and counsel vain, 
The rearward sqi:adions fled amain, 

Or made but doubtful stay ; 
But when they mar!:'d ihe scorning show 
Of fresh and fierce and marshall'd foe, 

The boldest broke array. 
O give their hapless prince his due ! / 
In vain the royal Edward threw 

His person 'mid the spears. 
Cried, "Fight !" to terror and despair, 
Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair, 

And cursed their caitiff fears j 
Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein, 
And forced hiin from the fatal plain. 
With them rode Argentine, until 
They gain'd the summit of the hill, 

But quitted there the train ; — 



302 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



" In yonder field a gage I left, — 
1 must not live of fame bereft ; 

I needs must turn again. 
Speed hence, my Liege, for on your trace 
The fiery Douglas takes the chase, 

1 know his banner well. 
God send my Sovereign joy and bliss, 
And many a happier field than this! — 

Once more, my Liege, farewell." 



Again he faced the battle-field,— 

Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield 

*' Now then," he said, and couch'a his 

spear, 
" My course is run, the goal is near , 
One effort more, one brave career, 

Must close this race of mine " 
Then in his stirrups rising high, 
He shouted loud his battle-cry, 

" Saint James for Argentine 1" 
And, of the bold pursuers, four 
The gallant knight from saddle bore , 
But not ur.harm'd — a lance's point 
Has found his breastplate's loosen'd joint, 

An axe has razed his crest , 
Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord, 
Who pressed the chase with gory sword, 

He rode with spear in rest, 
And through his bloody tartans bored, 

And through his gallant breast 
Nail'd to the earth, the mountaineer 
Yet writhed hmi up against the spear, 

And swung his broadsword round! 
— Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave way," 
Beneath that blow's tremendous sway, 

The blood gush'd from the wound ; 
And the grim Lord of Colonsay 

Hath turn'd him on the ground, 
And laugh'd in death-pang, that his blade 
The mortal thrust so well repaid. 

XXXIII. 

Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done, 
To use his conquest boldly won ; 
And gave command for horse and spear 
To press the Southron's scatter'd rear, 
Nor let his broken force combine, 
—When the war-cry of Argentine 

Fell faintly on his ear ; 
" Save, save his life," he cried, " O save 
The kind, the noble, and the brave ! " 
The squadrons round free passage gave 

The wounded knight drew near ; 
He raised his red-cross shield no more, 
Helm, cuish, and breastplate, stream'd with 
gore, 



Yet, as he saw the King advance, 

He strove even then to couch his lance— 

The effort was in vain ! 
The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse ; 
Wounded and weary, in mid course 

He stumbled on the plain. 
Then foremost was the generous Bruce 
To raise his head, his helm to loose ; — 

" Lord Earl, the day is thine ! 
My Sovereign's charge, and adverse fate, 
Have made our meeting all too late : 

Yet this may Argentine, 
As boon from ancient comrade, crave. — • 
A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave." 

XXXIV. 

Bruce press'd his dying hand — its grasp 
Kindly replied ; but, in his clasp, 

It stiff en'd and grew cold — 
" And, O farewell ! " the victor cried, 
" Of chivalry the flower and pride, 

The arm in battle bold, 
The courteous mien, the ncble race,' 
The stainless faith, the manly face !— 
Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine, 
For late-wake of De Argentine. 
O'er better knight on death-bier laid, 
Torch never gleam'd ncr mass was said i " 

XXXV. 

Nor for De Argentine alone, 

Througli Niniaq's church these torches 

shone, 
And rose the death-prayer's awful tone. 
That yellow lustre glimmer'd pale. 
On broken plate and bloodied mail, 
Rent crest and shatter'd coronet, * 

Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret ; 
And the best names that England knew, 
Claim'd in the death-prayer dismal due. 

Yet mourn not, Land of Fame ! 
Though ne'er the Leopards on thy shield 
Retreated from so- sad a field. 

Since Norman William came. 
Oft mav thine annals justly boast 
Of battles stern by Scotland lost ; 

Grudge not her victory. 
When for her freeborn rights she strove , 
Rights dear to all who freedom love. 

To none so dear as thee I 

XXXVI. 

Turn we to Bruce, whose curious ear 
Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear: 
With him a hundred voices tell 
Of prodigy and miracle, 

" For the mute page had spoke." — 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



303 



** Page I " said Fitz-Louis, " rather say, 
An angel sent from roalnvi cf day, 

To burst the English yoke. 
I saw his plume and bonnet drop, 
When hurrying from tlie mountain-top ; 
A lovely brow, dark locks that wave, 
To his bright eyes new lustre gave ; 
Au step as light upon the green, 
.As if his pinions waved unseen ! " — 
r Spoke he v.-ith none?" — "With none — 
. one word 

Burst when he saw the Island Lord, 
Returning from the battle-fiela." — 
"What answer made the Chief ?"—" He 

kneel'd, 
Durst not look up, but mutter'd low, 
Some mingled sounds that none might 

know, 
And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear, 
As being of superior sphere.'' 

xxxvir. 

Even upon Bannock's bloody plain, 
Heap'd then with thousands of the ?lain, 
'Mid victor monarch's musings high, 
Mirth laugh'd in good King Robert's eyp--— ■ 
" And bore he such angelic air. 
Such noble front, such waving hair ? 
Hath Ronald kneel'd to him ?'' he said, 
" Then must we call the church to aid — 
Our will be to the Abbot known, 
Ere these strange new^ are wider blown. 
To Cambuskenneth straight ye pass, 
And deck the church for solemn mass, 
To pay for high deliverance given, 
A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven. 
Let him array, besides, such state. 
As should on princes' nuptials wait. 



Ourself the cause, through fortune's spite, 
' That once broke short that spousal rite, 
Ourself will grace, with early morn. 
The bridal of the Maid of Lorn." 

CONCLUSION. 

Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous 

way ; 
Go boldly forth ; nor yet thy mastejt 

blame, 
Who chose no patron for his humble lay^ 
And graced thy numbers with no friendly 

name, 
Whose partial zeal might smooth thy 

path to fame. 
There -was — and O ! how many sorrows 

crowd 
Into these two brief words I there was a 

claim 
By generous friendship given — had fate 

allow'd. 
It well had bid thee rank the proudest of 

the proud ! 

All angel now — yet little less than all, 
While still a pilgrim in our world below ! 
What 'vails it us that patience to recall, 
Which hid its own to soothe all other 

woe ; 
What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's purest 

glow 
Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair ; 
And, least of all, what 'vails the world 

should know, 
That one poor garland, twined to deck 

thy hair, 
Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and 

wther there I 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



A POEM. 



TO HER GRACE THE 

DUCHESS OF WELLINGTON, 

PRINCESS OF WATERLOO, &c., &c., &c., 
THE FOLLOWING VERSES ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



^btjcrlieement. 



It tnay be sowe apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed hastily^ 
unci during a short tour upon tJie Contitient, whejt the A uthor^s labors -were liable to frequent 
interruptioft ; but its best apology is, that it was -written for the purpose of assisting th» 
Waterloo Subscription. 
Abbotsfcrd, 1815. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



Tliough Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand, 

And Albert riish'd on Henry's way-worn band, 

With Europe's chosen sons, in arms lenown'd, 

Yet not on Vere's bold arcliers long they iook'd, 

Nor Audley's squires, nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd, — 

They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound.— Akbnsidb. 

Formany a league around, 
With birch and darksome oak between, 
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, 

Of tanqled forest ground. 
Stems planted close by stems defy 
The adventurous foot — the curious ej'e 

For access seeks in vain ; 
And the brown tapestry of leaves, 
Strew'd on the blighted ground, receives 

Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. 
No opening glade dawns on our way, 
No streamlet, glancing to the ray, 

Our woodland path has cross'd; 
And the straight causeway which we trtady 



Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, 
Though, lingering on the morning wind, 

We yet may hear the hour 
Pcnl'd over orchard and canal. 
With voice prolong'd and measured fall. 

From proud St. Michael's tower ; 
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,* 
Vvherc the tall beeches' glossy bough, 



* The wood of Soignies is a remnant of the 
forest of Ardennes, the scene of the charming 
and romantic incidents of Shakespeare's " As 
You Like It." 
(J04) 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



305 



Prolongs a line of dull arcade, 
Unvarying through tne unvaried shade 
Until in distance lost. 

11. 

A brighter, livelier scene succeeds ; 
In groups the scattering wood recedes, 
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny msads, 

And corn-fields, glance between ; 
The peasant at his labor blithe, 
Plies the hook'd staff and shorten'd 
scythe : ' — 

But when these ears were green, 
Placed close within destruction's scope. 
Full little was that rustic's hope 

Their ripening to have seen ! 
And, lo, a hamlet and its fane : — 
Let not the gazer with disdain 

Their architecture view ; 
For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, 
And disproportion' d spire, are thine, 

Immortal Waterloo ! 
III. 
Fear not the heat, though full and high 
The sun has scorch'd the autumn sky, 
And scarce a forest straggler now 
To shade us spreads a greenwood bough : 
These fields have seen a hotter day 
Than e'er was fired by sunny ray. 
Ytt one mile on — yon shatter' d hedge 
Crest the soft hill whose long smooth ridge 

Looks on the field below. 
And sinks so gently on the dale, 
That not the folds of Beauty's veil 

In easier curves can flow. 
Brief space from thence, the ground again 
Ascinding slowly from the plain. 

Forms an opposing screen, 
Which, with Its crest of upland ground, 
Shuts the horizon all around. 

The soften'd veil between 
Slopes smooth and fair for courser's tread ; 
Not the most timid maid need dread 
To give her snow-white palfrey head 

On that wide stubble-ground ; 
Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush, are there, 
Her course to intercept or scare, 

Nor fosse nor fence are found. 
Save where, from out her shatter'd bowers, 
Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers. 

IV. 

Now, see'st thou aught in this lone scene 
Can tell of that which late hath been \ — 

A stranger might reply, 
* The bare extent of stubble-plain 
Seems lately lighten'd of its grain ; 



And yonder sable tracks remain 
Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain, 

Wlien harvest-home was nigh. 
On these broad spots of trampled ground, 
Perchance the rustics danced such round 

k'r, Teniers loved to draw ; 
And where the earth seems scorch'd by 

flame, 
To dress the homely feast they came, 
And toil'd the kerchief'd village dame 

Around licr fire of straw." 

V. 

So deem'st thou — so each mortal deems. 
Of that which is from that which seems. — 

But other harvest here. 
Than that which peasant's scythe demand*, 
Was gather'd in by sterner hands, 

With bayonet, blade, and spear. 
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap. 
No stinted harvest thin and cheap 1 
Heroes before each fatal sweep 

Fell thick as ripen'd grain ; 
And ere the darkening of the day. 
Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay 
The ghastly harvest of the fray, 

The corpses of the slain. 



A}', look again — that line, so black 
And trampled, marks the bivouac. 
Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track, 

So often lost and won ; 
.'\nd close beside, the harden'd mud 
Still shows where, fetlock deep in blood, 
The fierce dragoon, through battle's flood, 

Dash'd the hot war-horse on. 
These spots of excavation tell 
The ravage of the bursting shell — 
And feel'st tliou not tlie tainted steam, 
That reeks against the sultry beam, 

From yonder trenched mound.? 
The pestilential fumes declare 
That Carnage has replenish'd there 

Her garner-liouse profound. 

VII. 

Far other harvest-home and feast. 

Than claims the boor from scythe released, 

On these scorch'd fields were known I 
Death hover'd o'er the maddening rout, 
And, in the thrilling battle-shout. 
Sent for the bloody banquet out 

A summons of his own. • 
Through rolling smoke the Demon's ejc 
Could well each destined guest espy, 
Well could his ear in ecstacy 

Distinguish every tone 



3o6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tliat fill'd the chorus of the fray — 
From cannon-roar and trumpet braj', 
From charging squadrons' wild hurra, 
From the wildclang that mark'd their way, 

Down to the dying groan, 
And the last sob of life's decay. 

When breath was all but fllown. 



Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, 
Feast on ! but think not that a strife, 
With such promiscuous carnage rife, 

Protracted space may last ; 
The deadly tug of war at length 
Must limits find in human strength, 

And cease when these are past. 
Vain hope! — that morn's o'erclouded sun 
Heard the wild shout ot fight begun 

Ere he attained his height, 
And through the war-smoke, volumed high, 
Still peals that unremitted cry, 

Though now he stoops to night. 
For ten long hours of doubt and dread. 
Fresh succors from the extended head 
Of either hill the contest fed ; 

Still down the slope they drew, 
The charge of columns paused not, 
Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot ; 

For all that war could do 
Of skill and force was proved that day, 
And turn'd not yet the doubtful fray 

On bloody Waterloo. 

IX. 

Pale Brussels ! then what thoughts were 

thine,^ 
When ceaseless from the distant line 

Continued thunders came ! 
Each burgher held his breath, to hear. 
These forerunners of havoc near, 

Of rapine and of flame. 
Wiiat ghastly siglits were thine to meet, 
Wi>2n rolling through thy stately street, 
Tlie wounded show'd their mangled plight 
■Jn token of the unfmisli'd fight, 
And from each anguish-laden warn 
The blood-drops laid thy dust like ro.in ! 
How often in the distant drum 
Heard'st thou the fell Invader come, 
While Ruin, shouting to his band, 
Shook iiigh her torch and gory brand ! — 
Cheer thee, fair City ! From yon stand, 
Impatient, still his outstretch'd hand 

Points to his prey in vain, 
While maddening in his eager mood, 
And all unwont to be withstood, 

He fires the fight agajn. 



" On ! On ! " was still his stern exclaim ; ' 
" Confront the battery's jaws of flame ! 

Rush on the levell'd gun ! 
My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance ! 
Each Hulan forward with his lance, 
My Guard— my Chosen — charge for France^ 

France and Napoleon ! " 
Loud answer'a t'leir acclaiming shout, 
Greeting the mandate which sent out 
Their bravest and their best to dare 
The fate their leader shunn'd to share.* 
But He, his country's sword and shield. 
Still in the battle-front reveal'd. 
Where danger fiercest swept the field, 

Came like a beam of light, 
In action prompt, in sentence briefs 
" Soldiers, stand firm." exclaim'd the Chief, 

" England shall tell the fight ! " s 



On came the whirlwind — like the last 
But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast — 
On came the whirlwind — steel-gleams broke 
Like lightning tiirough the rolling smoke ; 

The war was waked anew. 
Three hundred cannon-mouths roar'd loud, 
And from their throats, with flash and cloud, 

Their showers of iron threw. 
Beneath their fire, in full career, 
Rush'd on the ponderous cuirassier, 
The lancer couch'd his ruthless spear. 
And hurrying as to havoc near, 

The cohorts' eagles flew. 
In one dark torrent, broad and strong, 
The advancing onset roll'd along. 
Forth harbinger'd by fierce acclaim, 
That, from the shroud of smoke and flame, 
Peal'd widely the imperial name. 



But on the British heart were lost 

The terrors of the charging host ; 

For not an eye the storm that view'd 

Changed its proud glance of fortitude, 

Nor was one forward foots-tep staid. 

As dropp'd tke dying and the dead. 

Fast as their ranla; the thunders tear, 

Fast they renew'd each serried square ; 

■Xnd on the wounded and the slain 

Closed their diminish'd files again. 

Till from their line scarce spears' lengtht 

three, 
Eir.tiging from the smoke they see 
Helmet, and plume, and panoply, — 
Then waked their fire at once I 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



307 



.Each musketeer's, revolving knell, 
As fast, as regularly fell, 
As when they practise to display 
Their discipline on festal day. 

Then down went helm and lance, 
Down were the eagle banners sent, 
Down reeling steeds and riders went, 
Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent ; 

And, to augment the fray, 
Wheel'd full agamst their staggering flanks, 
The English horsemen's foaming ranks 

Forced their resistless way. 
Then to the musket-knell succeeds 
The clash of swords — the neigh of steeds — 
As plies the smith Iiis clanging trade,'' 
Against the cuirass rang the blade ; 
And while amid their close array 
The well-served cannon rent their way, 
And while amid their scatter'd band 
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand, 
Recoil'd in common rout and fear, 
Lancer and guard and cuirassier, 
Horsemen and foot — a mingled host, 
Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost. 



Then, Wellington ! thy piercing eye 
This crisis caught of destiny — 

The British host had stood 
That morn 'gainst charge of sword and 

lanc,e * 
As their own ocean-rocks hold stance, 
But when thy voice had said, " Advance ! " 

They were their ocean's flood. — 
O Thou, whose inauspicious aim 
Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame, 
Think'st thou thy broken bands will bide 
The terrors of yon rushing tide .'' 
Or will thy chosen brook to feel 
The British siiock of levell'd steel,^ 

Or dost thou turn thine eye 
Where coming squadrons gleam afar, 
And fresher thunders wake the war, 

And other standards fly ?^ 
Think not that in yon columns, file 
Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle — 

Is Blucher yet unknown .'' 
Or dwells not in thy memory still, 
(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill,) 
What notes of hate and vengeance thrill 

In Prussia's trumpet tone } — 



• "The British square stood unmoved, and 
never gave fire until the cavalry were within 
ten yards- when men rolled one way, horses 
galloped another, and the cuirassiers were in 
every instance driven back."— Z?/^ 0/ Bona- 
^rie, vol. ix. p. 13. 



What yet remains ? — shall it be thine 
To head the relics of thy line 

In one dread effort more ? — 
The Roman lore thy leisure loved. 
And thou canst tell what fortune proved 
Tliat Chieftain, who, of yore, 
I Ambition's dizzy paths essay'd, 
j And with the gladiators' aid 
! For empire enterprised— 
i He stood the cast his rashness play'd. 
Left not the victims he had made, 
Dug his red grave with his own blade, 
And on the field he lost was laid, 

Abhorr'd — but not despised. ^J 

XIV. 

But if revolves thy fainter thought 
On safety — howsoever brought, — 
Then turn thy fearful rein and ride, 
Though twice ten thousand men have died 

On this eventful day. 
To gild the military fame 
Which thou, for life, in traffic tame 

Wilt barter thus away. 
Shall future ages tell this tale 
Of inconsistence faint and frail? 
And" art thou He of Lodi's bridge, 
Marengo's field, and Wagram's ridge I 

Or is thy soul like mountain-tide, 
That, swell'd by winter storm and shower, ] 
Rolls down in turbulence of power, 

A torrent fierce and wide ; 
Reft of these aids, a rill obscure, 
Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor, 

Whose channel shows display' d 
The wrecks of its impetuous course. 
But not one symptom of the force 

By which these wrecks were made 1 

XV. 

Spur on thy way ! — since now thine ear 
Has brook'd thy veterans' wish to hear. 

Who, as thy flight they eyed, 
E.xclaim'd, — while tears of anguish came, 
Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and 
shame,— 

"O, that he had but died!" 
But yet, to sum this hour of ill, 
Look, ere thou leavest the fatal hill, 

Back on yon broken ranks — 
Upon whose wild confusion gleams 
The moon, as on the troubled streams 

When rivers break their banks, 
And, to the ruin'd peasant's eye, 
Objects half seen roll swiftly by, 

Down the dread current hurl'd— 
So mingle banner, warn, and gun, 



3oS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where the tumultuous fight rolls on 
Of warriors, who, when morn begun, 
Defied a banded world. 



List — frequent to the hurrying rout, 
The stern pursuers' vengeful shout 
Tells, that upon their broken rear 
Rages the Prussian's bloody spear. 

So fell a shriek was none, 
When Beresina's icy flood 
Redden'd and thaw'd with flame and blood, 
And, pressing on thy desperate way, 
Raised oft and long their wild hurra. 

The children of the Don. 
Thine ear no yell of horror cleft 
So ominous, when all bereft 
Of aid, the valiant Folack left* — 
Ay, left by thee — found soldier's grave 
In Leipsic's corpse-encumber'd wave. 
Fate, in those various perils past, 
Reserved thee still some future cast ; 
On the dread die thou now hast tlirown, 
Hangs not a single field alone, 
Nor one campaign — thy martial fame, 
Thy empire, dynasty, and name, 

Have felt the final stroke ; 
And now, o'er thy devoted head 
The last stern vial's wrath is shed, 

The last dread seal is broke. 



Since live thou wilt — refuse not now 
Before these demagogues to bow, 
Late objects of thy scorn and liatc, 
Who shall thy once imperial fate 
Make worldly theme of vain debate. — 
Or shall we say, thou stoop'st less. low 
In seeking refuge from the foe. 
Against whose heart, in prosperous life, 
Thine hand hath ever held the knife t 

Such homage hath been paid 
By Roman and by Grecian voice, 
And there were honor in the choice. 

If it were freely made. 
Then safely come, — in one so low — 
So lost, — we cannot own a foe ; 
Thougli dear experience bid us end, 
In thee we ne'er can hail a friend. — 
Come, howsoe'er — but do not hide 
Close in thy heart that germ of pride, 
Erewhile, by gifted bard espied, 

That " yet imperial hope ; " 

• For an account of the death of Ponia- 
towski at Leipsic, see Sir Walter Scott's Life 
^Bonaparte, vol. vii. p. 401. 



Think not that for a fresh reboimd, 
To raise ambition from the ground, 

We yield thee means or scope. 
In safety come — but ne'er again 
Hold type of independent reign ; 

No islet calls thee lord, 
We leave thee no confederate band, 
No symbol of thy lost command. 
To be a dagger in the hand 

From which we wrench'd the sword. 



Yet, even in yon sequester'd spot, 
May worthier conquest be thy lot 

Than yet thy life has known ; 
Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, 
That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, 

K triumph all thine own. 
Such waits thee when thou shalt control 
Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, 

That niarr'd thy prosperous scene : 
Hear this — from no unmoved heart, 
Which sighs, comparing what thou art 

With what thou might'st have been \ 



Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renew'd 

Bankrupt a nation's gratitude. 

To thine own noble heart must owe 

More than the meed she can bestow. 

For not a people's just acclaim. 

Not the full iiail of Europe's fame, 

Thy Prince's smiles, thy State's decree,. 

The ducal rank, the garter'd knee, 

Not these such pure delignt afford 

As that, when iianging up thy sword, 

Well may'st thou think. " This honest steel 

Was ever drawn for public weal ; 

And, such was riglitful Heaven's decree, 

Ne'er sheathed unless with victory ! " 

XX. 

Look forth, once more, with soften'd heart, ; 
Ere from the field of fame we part ; 
Triumph and Sorrow border near. 
And joy oft melts into a tear. 
Alas 1 wliat links of love tliat morn 
Has War's rude hand asunder torn ! 
For ne'er was field so sternly fouglit. 
And ne'er was conquest dearer bought. 
Here piled in common slaughter sleep 
Those whom affection long shall weep : 
Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall strain 
His orphans to his heart again ; 
The son, whom, on his native shore. 
The parent's voice shall bless no more ; 
Tiie bridegroom, who has hardly prcss'd 
His blushing consort to his breast i 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



309 



The husband, whom through many a j'ear 
Long love and mutual faith endear. 
Thou canst not name one tender tie, 
But here dissolved its relics lie ! 
O ! when thou see'st some mourners veil 
Shroud her thin form and visage pale, 
Or mark'st the Matron's bursting tears 
Stream when the stricken drum she hears ; 
Or see'st how manlier grief, suppress'd, 
is laboring in a father's breast, — 
With no inquiry vain pursue 
The cause, but think on Waterloo 1 

XXI. 

Period of honor as of woes, 
What bright careers 'twas thine to close." 
Mark'd on thy roll of blood what names 
To Briton's memory, and to Fame's, 
Laid there their last immortal claims 1 
Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire 
Redoubted Picton's soul of fire — 
Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie 
All that of PoNSONBY could die — 
De Lancey change Love's bridal wreath, 
For laurels frcm the hand of Death 9 — 
Saw'st gallant Miller's failing eye '<^ 
Still bent where Albion's banners fly, 
And Cameron," in the shock of steel, 
Die like the offspring of Lochiel ; 
And generous Gordon, '^ 'mid the strife. 
Fall, while he watch'd his leader's life. — 
Ah ! though her guardian angel's shield 
Fenced Britain's hero through the field, 
Fate not the less her power made known, 
Through his friends' hearts to pierce his 
own ! * 

XXII. 

Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay ! 
Who may your names, your numbers say? 
What high-strung harp, what lofty line, 
To each the dear-earn'd praise assign. 
From higli-born chiefs of martial fame 
To the poor soldier's lowlier name? 
Lightly ye rose that dawning-day, 
From your cold couch of swamp and clay, 
To fill, before the sun was low, 
The bed that morning cannot know.— 
Oft may the tear and green sod steep, 
And sacred be the heroes' sleep, 

Till time shall ceasr; to run ; 
And ne'er beside their noble grave, 
May Briton pass and fail to crave 
A blessing on the fallen brave 

Who fought with Wellington ! 

* The grief of the victor for the fate of his 
friends is touchingly described by those who 
witnessed it. 



XXIII. 

Farewell, sad Field ! whose blighted face 
Wears desolation's withering trace, 
Long shall my memory retain 
Thy shatter'd huts and trampled grain, 
VVith every mark of martial wrong, 
That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont ! '■' 
Vet though thy garden's green arcade 
Th ^ marksman's fatai post was made. 
Though on thy shatter'd beeches fell 
The blended ragi of shi t and shell. 
Though frrm thy biacken'd portals torn, 
Their fall thy blighted fruit trees mourn, 
Has not such havoc bought a name 
Immcrtal in the r( lis of fame' 
Yes — Agincourt may be forgot, 
And Cressy be an unknown spot, 

And Blenheim's name be new ; 
But still in story and in song, 
Fcr many an age remembered long, 
Shall live the towers of Hougomont, 

And Field of Waterloo 

CONCLUSION 

Stern tide of human Time ! that know'st 

not rest. 
But sweeping from the cradle to the 

tomb, 
Bear'st ever downward on thy dusky 

breast, 
Successive generations to their doom : 
While thy capacious stream has equal 

room 
For the gay bark where Pleasure's 

streamers sport, 
And for the prison-ship of guilt and 

gloom, 
The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a 

court, 
Still wafting onward all to one dark silent 

port ; — 

Stern tide of Time ! through what 

mysterious change 
Of hope and fear have our frail barks 

been driven I 
For ne'er, before, vicissitude so strange 
Was to one race of Adam's offspring 

given. • 

And sure such varied change of sea and 

heaven. 
Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe, 
Such fearful strife as that where we have 

striven, 
Succeeding ages ne'er again shall know, 
Until the awful term when Thou shalt 

cease to flow I 



31^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Well hast thou stood, my Country !— 
the brave fight j 

Hast well maintain'd through good | 
report and ill ; 

In thy just cause and in thy native 
might, 

And in Heaven's grace and justice con- 
stant still ; 

Whether the banded prowess, strength, 
and skill 

Of half the world against thee stood 
array'd. 

Or when, with better views and freer will, 

Beside thee Europe's noblest drew the 
blade, 
Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen 
to aid. 

Well art thou now repaid — though 

slowly rose, 
And struggled long with mists thy blaze 

of fame, 
While like the dawn that in the orient 

giows 
On the broad wave its earlier lustre 

came ; [flame, 

Then eastern Egypt saw the growing 
And Maida's .lyrtles gleam'd beneath 

its ray. 
Where first the soldier, stung with 

generous shame, 
Rivall'd the heroes of the wat'ry way. 



Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest 

on higli. 
And bid tlie banner of thy Patron 

flow, 
Gallant St. George, the flowef oi 

Chivalry, 
For thou hast faced, like him, a dragon 

foe, 
And rescued innocence from overthrow, 
And trampled down, like him, tyrannic 

might, 
And to the gazing world mayst proudly 

show 
The chosen emblem of thy sainted 

Knight, 
Who quell'd devouring pride, and vindi« 

cated right. 

Yet 'mid the confidence of just re» 

nown, 
Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus 

acquired, 
Write, Britain, write the moral lessoa 

down : 
'Tis not alone the heart with valor 

fired. 
The discipline so dreaded and admired, 
In many a field of bloody conquest 

known ; 
— Such may by fame be lured, by gold 

be hired — 
'Tis constancy in thy good cause alone, 



And wash'd in foeman's gore unjust j Best justifies the meed" thy valiant sons 
reproach away. I have won. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 



INTRODUCTION. 

There is a mood of mind, we all have 

known 
On djowsy eve, or dark and low'ring day. 
When the tired spirits lose their sprightly 

tone, 
And nought can chase the lingering 

hours away. 
Dull on our soul falls Fancy's dazzUng 

ray, 
And Wisdom holds his steadier torch in 

vain, 



Obscured the painting seems, mistuned 

the lay, 
Nor dare we of our listless load complain, 
For who for sympathy may seek that can- 
not tell of pain ? 

The jolly sportsman knows such drearic 

hood, 
When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain. 
Clouding that morn which threats the 

heath-cock's brood ; 
Of such, in summer's drought, the angler* 

plain, 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



3»t 



Who hope the soft mild southern shower 
in vain : 

But, more than all, the discontented fair, 

Whom father stern, and sterner aunt, re- 
strain 

From country-ball, orjace occurring rare, 
fVhile all her friends around their vestments 
gay prepare. 

Ennui ! — or, as our mothers call'd thee, 

Spleen ! 
To thee vire owe full many a rare device ;— 
Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, I 

ween, 
The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling 

dice; 
The turning-lalhe for framing gimcrack 

nice , 
The amateur's blotch'd pallet thou mayst 

claim. 
Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs 

and mice, 
(Murders disg'aised by philosophic name,) 
'^nd much of trifling grave, and much of 

buxom game. 

Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy 

glance, 
Compiled, what bard the catalogue may 

quote 1 
Plays, poems, novels, never read but 

once ; — 
But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth 

wrote, 
That bears thy name, and is thine anti- 
dote , 
And not of such the strain my Thomson 

sung, 
Delicious dreams inspiring by his note. 
What time to Indolence his harp he 

strung ,— 
Oh ! might my lay be rank'd that happier 

list among ! 

Each hath his refuge whom thy cares 

assail. 
For me, 1 love my study-fire to trim. 
And con riglit vacantly some idle tale. 
Displaying on the couch each hstless 

limb, 
Till on the drowsy page the lights grow 

dim, 
And doubtful slumber half suppRes the 

theme ; 
While antique ahapes of knight and giant 

grim. 



Damsel and dwarf, in long procession 
gleam. 
And the Romancer's tale becomes the Read- 
ers dream. 

'Tis thus my malady I well may bear. 
Albeit outstretch'd, like Pope's own 

Paridel, 
Upon the rack of a too-easy chair ; 
And find, to cheat the time, a powerfiil 

spell 
In old romaunts of errantry that tell, 
Or later legends of the Fairy-folk, 
Or Oriental tale of Afrite fell, 
Of Genii, Talisman, and broad-wing'd 

Roc, 
Though taste may blush and frown, and 

sober reason mock. 

Oft at such season, too, will rhymes un 

sought 
Arrange themselves in some romantic 

lay ;- 
The which, as things unfitting graver 

thought. 
Are burnt or blotted on some wiser 

day. — 
These few survive — and proudly let me 

say, 
Court not the critic's smile, nor dread his 

frown ; 
They well may serve to while an hour 

away. 
Nor does the volume ask for more renown, 
Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time she 

drops it down. 



CANTO FIRST. 



List to the valorous deeds that were done 
By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's 
son I 

Count Witikind came of a regal strain. 
And roved with his Norsemen the land and 

the main. 
Wee to the realms which he coasted ! for 

there 
Was shedding of blood, and rending of haifp 
Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest. 
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast: 
Wlien he hoisted his standard black. 
Before him was battle, behind him wrack, 
And he burn'd the churches, that heathen 

Dane, 
To light his band to their barks again. 



3^2 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



On Erin's shores was his outrage known. 
The winds of France had his baiiners j 

blown ; ! 

Little was there to plunder, yet still ■ 

His pirates had foray'd on Scottish hill : | 
But upon merry England's coast | 

More frequent he sail'd, for he won the I 

most. I 

So wide and so far his ravage they knew, ! 
If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the welkin I 

blue, 
Trumpet and bugle to arms did call, 
Burghers hasten'd to man the wall, 
Peasants fled inland his fury to 'scape. 
Beacons were lighted on headland and cape, 
Bells were toH'd out, and aye as they rung, 
Fearful and faintly the gray brothers sung, 
" Bless us, St. Mary, from flood and from 

fire, 
From famine and pest, and Count Witikind's 

ire ! " 

III. 
He liked the wealth of fair England so well, 
Tliat he sought in her bosom as native to 

dwell. 
He enter'd the H umber in fearful hour. 
And disembark'd with his Danish power. 
Three Earls came against him with all their 

train, — 
Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain. 
Count Witikind left the Humber's rich 

strand, 
And he wasted and warr'd in Northumber- 
land. 
But the Saxon King was a sire in age, 
Weak in battle, in council sage ; 
Peace of that heathen leader he sought, 
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought ; 
A.nd the Count took upon him the peaceable 

style 
Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad 

isle. 

IV. 

Time will rust the sharpest sword, 

Time will consume the strongest cord , 

That which moulders hemp and steel. 

Mortal arm and nerve must feel. 

Ol the Danish band, whom Count Witikind 

led, 
Many wax'd aged, and many were dead : 
Himself found his armor full weighty to 

bear, 
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his 

hair; I 



He lean'd on a staff, when his step went 

abroad, 
And patient his palfrey, when steed he be- 
strode. 
As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased. 
He made himself peace with prelate and 

priest ; 
Made his peace, and, stooping his head. 
Patiently listed the counsel they said : 
Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and 

grave, 
Wise and good was the counsel he gave. 



" Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd 
Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd ; 
Priests didst thou slay, and churches burn, 
Time it is now to repentance to turn ; 
Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish 

rite, 
Leave now the darkness, and wend into 

light : 
O ! while life and space are given, 
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven ! " 
That stern old heathen his head he raised, 
And on the good prelate he steadfastly 

gazed ; 
" Give me broad lands on the Wear and the 

Tyne, 
My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto 

thine." 

VI. 

Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and 

Wear, 
To be held of the Church by bridle and 

spear ; 
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tyndale part, 
To better his will, and to soften his heart: 
Count Witikind was a joyful man, 
Less for the faith than the lands that he 

wan. 
The high church of Durham is dress'd for 

tiie day. 
The clergy are rank'd in their -solemn 

array ; 
There came the Count, 'n a bear-skin 

warm. 
Leaning on Hilda his concJ'hine's arm 
Hi knecl'd before Saint Ci-thbert's shrine, 
With patience unwonted ?*■ rites divine; 
He abjured the gods of heathen race, 
.Vnd he bent his head at ib"- font of grace. 
But such was the grisly '^Id proselyte's 

look. 
That the priest who baptized him grew palo 

and shook : 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



313 



And the old monks mutter'd beneath their 

hood, 
•^ Of a stem so stubborn can never spring 

good l" 

VII. 

Up then arose that grim convertite, 
Homeward he hied him when ended the i 

rite ; i 

The Prelate in honor will with him ride, i 
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side. ; 
Banners and banderols danced in the wind, i 
Monks rode before them, and spearman be- 1 

hind; ... ' 

Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine 1 
Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne ; ! 
And full in front did that fortress lower, I 
In darksome strength with its buttress and I 

tower ; 
At the castle gate was young Marold there, 
Count Witikind's only offspring and heir. 

VIII. 

Young Harold was fear'd for his hardi- 
hood, 

His strength of frame, and his fury of 
mood. 

Rude he was and wild to behold, 

Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold, 

Cap ot vair nor rich array, 

Such as should grace that festal day : 

His doublet of bull's hide was all un- 
braced, 

Uncover' d his head, and his sandal un- 
laced : 

His shaggy black locks on his brow hung 
low, 

And his eyes glanced through them a 
swarthy glow ; 

A Danish club in his hand he bore. 

The spikes were clotted with recent gore ; 

At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf-cubs 
twain, 

In the dangerous chase that morning slain. 

Rude was the greeting his father he made, 

None to the Bishop,— while thus he said : — 

IX. 

*' What priest-led hypocrite art thou, 
With th}' humble look and thy monkish 

brow. 
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his 

vow? 
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster 

known, 
Royal Eric's fearless son, 
Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord, • 
Who won his bride by tlie axe and sword ; \ 



From the shrine of St. Peter the chalice 

who tore, 
And melted to bracelets for Freya and 

Thor ; 
With one blow of his gauntlet who burst 

the skull, 
Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain 

Bull? 
Then ye worshipp'd with rites that tc- 

war-gods belong, 
With the deed of the brave, and the blow of 

the strong ; 
And now, in thine age to dotage sunk. 
Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven 

monk, — 
Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing ot 

hair, — 
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou 

bear? 
Or, a-t best, be admitted in slothful bower 
To batten with priest and with paramour ' 
Oh ! out upon thine endless ^shame ! 
Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy 

fame, 
And thy son v/ill refuse thee a father's 

name I " 



Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look, 

His faltering voice with fury shook :.- 

" Hear me, Harold of harden'd heart \ , 

Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert 

Thine outrage insane 1 command thee i.) 

cease, 
Fear my wrath and remain at peace; — 
Just is the debt of repentance I've paid, 
Richly the Church has a recompense made, 
And the truth of her doctrines I prove with 

my blade, 
But reckoning to none of my actions 1 

owe. 
And least to my son such accountmg will 

show. 
Why speak I to thee of repentance or truth. 
Who ne'er from thy childhood knew reason 

or ruth ? 
Hence ! to the wolf and the bear m her den ; 
These are thy mates, and not rational men." 



Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly rephed, 
" We must honor our sires, if we fear when 

they chide. 
For me, I am yet what thy lessons have 

made, 
I was rock'd in a Luckier and fed from a 

blade • 



3M 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



An infant, was taught to clasp hands and 

to shout 
From the roof of the tower when the flame 

hrc-l broke out ; 
In the blood of slain foemen my finger to 

dip, 
And tinge with its purple my cheek and 

my lip. — 
*Tis thou know'st not truth, that has bar- 

ter'd in eld, 
For a price, the brave faith that thine an- 
cestors held. 
When this wolf," — and the carcase he flung 

on the plain, — 
" Shall wake and give food to her nurselings 

again, 
The face of his father will Harold review ; 
Till then, aged Heathen, young Christian, 

adieu ! " 



Priest, monk, and prelate, stood aghast. 
As through the pageant the heathen pass'd. 
A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung, 
Laid his hand on the pommel, and into it 

sprung. 
Loud was the shriek, and deep the groan, 
When the holy sign on tlie earth was 

thrown ! 
The fierce old Count unsheathed his brand, 
But the calmer prelate stay'd his hand. 
" Let him pass free ! — Heaven knows its 

hour, — 
But he must own repentance's power. 
Pray and weep, and penance bear. 
Ere he hold land by the Tyne and the 

Wear." 
Thus in scorn and m wrath from his fatlier 

is gone 
Young Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 

kind's son. 

XIII 

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall, 
Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and 

all ; 
And e'en the good Bishop was fain to en- 
dure 
The scandal, which time and instruction 

might cure : 
It were dangerous, he deem'd, at the first to 

restrain. 
In his wine and his wassail, a half-christen'd 

Dane. 
The mead fiow'd around, and the ale was 

drain 'd dry. 
Wild was the laughter, the song, and the 

cry; 



With Kyrie Eleison, came clamorously in 
The* war-songs of Danesmen, Norvveyan, 

and Finn. 
Till man after man the contention gave 

o'er, 
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd the 

hall floor ; 
And the tempest within, having ceased its 

wild rout. 
Gave place to the tempest that thunder'a 

without, 

XIV. 
Apart from the wassail, in turret alone. 
Lay Flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermen- 

garde's son ; 
In the train of Lord Harold that Page was 

the first, 
For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde 

nursed ; 
And grieved was young Gunnar his master 

should roam. 
Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from 

home. 
He heard the deep thunder, the plashing of 

rain, 
He saw the red lightning through shot-hole 

and pane ; 
" And oh ! " said the Page, " on the shel- 
terless wold 
Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and 

cold ! 
What though he was stubborn, and way- 
ward, and wild. 
He endured me because I was Ermen- 

garde's child, — 
And often from dawn till th; set of the sun, 
In the chase, by his stirrup, unbidden I run : 
I would I were older, and knighthood could 

bear, 
I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne 

and the Wear ; 
For my mother's command, with her last 

parting l^reath. 
Bade me follow her nursling in life and to 

death. 

XV. 

" It pours and it thunders, it lightens 
amain. 

As if Lok, the Destroyer, had burst from 
his chain ! 

Accursed by the Church and expell'd by his 
sire. 

Nor Christian nor Dane give him shelter or 
fire. 

And this tempest what mortal may house- 
less endure ? 

Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



315 



Whate'er comes of Gunnar, he tarries not 

here." 
He leapt from his couch and he grasp'd to 

his spear ; 
Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturb'd 

by his tread, 
The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of the 

dead : 
*• Ungrateful and bestial ! " his anger broke 

forth, 
* To forget 'mid your goblets the pride of 

the North ! 
And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have plenty 

in store. 
Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey and 

ore," 

XVI. 

Then, heeding full little of ban or of curse. 
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaulx's 

purse : 
Saint Meneholt's Abbot next morning has 

miss'd 
His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape to 

the wrist • 
The Seneschal's keys from his belt he has 

ta'en, 
(Well drench'd on that eve was old Hilder- 

brand's brain.) 
To the stable-yard he made his way. 
And mounted the Bishop's palfrey gay, 
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast. 
And right on his way to the moorland has 

pass'd. 
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to tace 
A weather so wild at so rash a pace ; 
So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd, 
There answer'd a steed that was bound 

beside. 
And the red flash of lightning show'd there 

where lay 
His master, Lord Harold, outstretch'd on 

the clay. 

XVII. 

Up he started, and thunder'd out, " Stand ! " 
And raised the club in his deadly Ivind. 
The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose told, 
Show'd the palfrey and profferr'd the gold, 
" Back, back, and home, thou simple 

boy ! 
Thou canst not share my grief or joy : 
Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry 
When thou hast seen a sparrow die ? 
And canst thou, as my follower should. 
Wade ankle-deep through foeman's blood, 
Dare mortal and immorta) foe, 
The gods above, the fiends below, 



And man on earth, more hateful still, 
The very fountain-head of ill ? 
Desperate of life, and careless of death, 
Lover of bloodshed, and slaughter, and 

scathe, 
Such must thou be with me to roam. 
And such thou canst not be — back, and 

home 1 " 

XVIII. 

Young Gunnar shook like an aspen Dough, 
As he heard the harsh voice and beheld tiie 

dark brow, 
And half he repented his purpose and vow. 
But now to draw back were bootless shame. 
And he loved his master, so urged his 

claim : 
" .^las ! if my arm and my courage be weak, 
Bear with me awhile for old Ermengarde'i 

sake ; 
Nor deem so lightly of Gimnar's faith, 
As to fear he would break it for peril of 

death. 
Have I not risk'd it to fetch thee this gold, 
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee from 

cold.? 
And, did I bear a baser mind. 
What lot remains if I stay behind ? 
The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath, 
A dungeon, and a shameful death." 

XIX. 

With gentler look Lord Harold eyed 
The Page, then turn'd his head aside; 
And either a tear did his eyelash strain, 
Or it caught a drop of the passing rain. 
" Art thou an outcast, then .? " quoth he ; 
" The meeter page to follow me." 
'Twere bootless to tell what climes they 

sought. 
Ventures achieved, and battles fought ; 
How oft v/ith few, how oft alojie. 
Fierce Harold's arm the field hath won. 
Men swore his eye, that flash'd so red 
When each other glance was quenched with 

dread, 
Bore oft a light of deadly flame, 
Tliat ne'er trom mortal courage came. 
Those limbs so strong, that mood so stem, 
That loved the couch of heath and fern. 
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town ; 
More than to rest on driven down ; 
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood, 
Men deem'd must come of aught but good; 
And they v/hisper'd, the great Master Fiend 

was at one 
With Harold the Dauntless, Count Witt 

kind's sou- . 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Years after years had gone and fled, 

The good old Prelate lies lapp'd in lead ; 

In the chapel still is shown 

His sculptured form on a marble stone, 

With staff and ring and scapulaire, 

And folded hands in the act of prayer. 

Saint Cuthberl's mitre is resting now 

On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's 

brow ; 
The power of his crozier he loved to extend 
O'er whatever would break, or whatever 

would bend ; 
And now hath he clothed him in cope and 

in pall, 
And the Chapter of Durham has met at his 

call. 
" And hear ye not, brethren," the proud 

Bishop said, 
"That our vassal, the Danish Count Witi- 

kind's dead ? 
All his gold and his goods hath he given 
To holy Church for the love of Heaven, 
And had founded a chantry with stipend 

and dole. 
That priests and that beadsmen may pray 

for his soul • 
Harold his son is wanderiftg abroad, 
Dreaded by man and abhorr'd by God ; 
Meet it is not, that such should heir 
The lands of the Church on the Tyne and 

the Wear, 
And at her pleasure her hallow'd hands 
May now resume these wealthy lands. 



Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old, — 

" Harold is tameless, and furious, and bold ; 

Ever Renown blows a note of fame, 

And a note of fear, when she sounds his 

name ; 
Much of bloodshed and much of scathe 
Have been their lot who have waked his 

wrath. 
Leave him these lands and lordships still ; 
Heaven in its hour may change his will ; 
But if reft of gold, and of living bare. 
An evil counsellor is despair.'' 
More had he said, but the Prelate frown'd, 
And murmur'd his brethren who sate 

around. 
And with one consent have they given their 

doom, 
That the Church should the lands of Saint 

Cuthbert resume. 
So will'd the Prelate ; and canon and dean 
Gave to his judgment their loud amen. 



CANTO SECOND 



'Tis merry in greenwood — thus runs the old 

lay- 
In the gladsome month of lively May, 
When the wild birds' song on stem and 
spray. 

Invites to forest bower ; 
Then rears the ash his airy crest, 
Then shines the birch m silver vest, 
And the beech in glistening leaves is dre.st, 
And dark between shows the oak's proud 
breast. 

Like a chieftain's frowning tower ; 
Though a thousand branches join theit 

screen, 
Yet the broken sunbeams glance between, 
And tip the leaves with lighter green, 

With brighter tints the flower : 
Dull is the heart that loves not then 
The deep recess of the wildwood glen. 
Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den. 

When the sun is in his power. 



n. 

Less merry, perchance, is the fading leaf 
That follows so soon on the gather'd sheaf, 

When the greenwood loses the name ; 
Silent is then the forest bound. 
Save the redbreast's note, and the rustling 

sound 
Of frost-nipt leaves that are dropping 

round, 
Or the deep-mouth'd cry of the distant 
hound 

That opens on his game : 
Yet then, too, I love the forest v/ide, 
Whether the sun in splendor ride, 
And gild its many-color'd side ; 
Or whether the soft or silvery haze, 
In vapory folds o'er the landscape strays, 
And half involves the woodland maze. 

Like an early widow's veil, 
Where \wmpling tissue from the gaze 
The form half hides, and half betrays, 

Of beauty wan and pale. 



Fair Metelill was a woodland maid, 
Her father a rover of greenwood shade, 
By forest statutes undismay'd, 

Who lived by bow and quiver ; 
Well known was Wulfstane's archery. 
By merry TjTie both on moor and lea. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



317' 



Through wooded Weardale's glens so free, 
Well beside Stanhope's wildwood tree, 

And well on Ganlesse river, 
"Yet free though he trespass' d on woodland 

game, 
More known and more fear'd was the wizard 

fame 
Of Jutta of Rookhope, the Outlaw's dame; 
Fear' d when she frown'd was her eye of 
flame, 

More fear'd when in wrath she laugh'd ; 
For, then, 'twas said, more fatal true 
To its dread aiir her spell-glance flew, 
Than when from Wulfstane's bended yew 

Sprung forth the gray-goose shaft. 



Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair, 
So Heaven decreed, a daughter fair ; 

None brighter crown'd the bed, 
In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince, 
Nor hath, perchance, a lovelier since, 

In this fair isle been bred. 
And nought of fraud, or ire, or ill. 
Was known to gentle Metelill, — 

A simple maiden she ; 
The spells in dimpled smile that lie, 
And a downcast blush, and the darts that fly 
With the sidelong glance of a hazel eye. 

Were her arms and witchery. 
So young so smiple was she yet. 
She scarce could childhood's joys forget, 
And still she loved, in secret set 

Beneath the greenwood tree, 
To plait the rushy coronet. 
And braid with "flowers her looks of jet, 

• As when in mfancy ; — 

Yet could that heart, so simple, prove 
The early dawn of stealing love ; 

Ah ! gentle maid, beware ! 
The power who, now so mild a guest. 
Gives dangerous yet delicious zesc 
To the calm pleasures of thy breast, 
Will soon, a tyrant o'er the rest, 

• Let none his empire share. 



One morn, in kirtle green array'd, 
Deep in the wood the maiden stray'd. 

And, where a fouutam sprung, 
She sate her down, unseen, to thread 
The scarlet berry's mimic braid, 

And while the beads she strung, 
Like the blithe lark, whose carol gay 
Gives a good-morrow to the day, 

So lightsomely she sung. 



SONG. 

" Lord William was born in gilded 

bower, 
The heir of Wilton's lofty tower.; 
Yet better loves Lord William now 
To roam beneath wild Kookhope's brow ; 
And William, has lived where ladies fair 
With gawds and jewels deck their hair, 
Yet better loves the dewdrops still 
That pearls the locks of Metelill. 

" The pious Palmer loves, I wis. 
Saint Cuthbert's hallow'd beads to kiss, 
But I, though simple girl I be. 
Might have such homage paid to me ; 
For did Lord William see me suit 
This necklace of the bramble's fruit, 
He fain — but must not have his will- 
Would kiss the beads of MetelilL 

" My nurse has told me many a tale, 
How vows of love are weak and frail ; 
My mother says that courtly youth 
By rustic maid means seldom sooth, 
What should they mean ? it cannot be, 
That such a warning's meant for me, 
For nought — oh ! nought of fraud or ill 
Can William mean to Metelill ! " 

VlL 

Sudden she stops-^and starts to feel 
A weighty hand, a glove of steel. 
Upon her shrinking shoulders laid ; 
Fearful she turn'd, and saw, dismay'd, 
A Knight in plate and mail array'd, ' 
His crest and bearing worn and fray'd. 

His surcoat soil'd and riven, 
Form'd like that giant race of yore, 
Whose long-continued crimes outwore 

The sufferance of Heaven. 
Stern accents made his pleasure kno\vn, 
Though then he used his gentlest tone : 
" Maiden," he said, " sing forth thy glee, 
Start not — sing on — it pleases me." 

VIII. 

Secured within his powerful hold. 
To bend her knee, her hands to fold, 

Was all the maiden might ; 
And " Oh ! forgive," she faintly said, 
" The terrors of a simple maid, 

If thou art mortal wight .? 
But if — of such strange tales are told-^ 
Unearthly warrior of the wold, 
Thou comest to chide mine accents boId| 
My mother, Jutta, knows the spell. 
At noon and midnight pleasing well 



3i« 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The disembodied ear. 
Oh ! let her powerful charms atone 
For aught my rashness may have done, 

And cease thy grasp of fear." 
Then laugh'd the Knight — his laughter's 

sound 
Half in the hollow helmet drown' d ; 
His barred vizor then he raised, 
And steady on the maiden gazed. 
He smooth'd his brows, as best he might, 
To the dread calm of autumn night, 

When sinks the tempest roar ; 
Yet still the cautious fisher's eye 
The clouds, and fear the gloomy sky, 

And haul their barks on shore. 



" Damsel," he said, "be wise and learn 
Matters of weight and deep concern : 

From distant realms I come. 
And, wanderer long, at length have plann'd 
In this my native Northern land 

To seek myself a home. 
Nor that alone — a mate I seek ; 
She must be gentle, soft, and meek, — 

No lordly dame for me ; 
Myself am something rough of mood, 
And feel the fire of royal blood, 
And therefore do not hold it good 

To match in my degree. 
Then, since coy maidens say my face 
Is harsh, my form devoid of grace, 
For a fair lineage to provide, 
'Tis meet that my selected bride 
In lineaments be fair ; 
I love thine well — till now I ne'er 
Look'd patient on a face of fear. 
But now that tremulous sob and tear 

Become thy beauty rare. 
One kiss — nay, damsel, coy it not! — 
And now go seek thy parents' cot, 
And say, a bridegroom soon I come. 
To woo my love, and bear her home." 

X. 

Home sprung the maid without a pause, 

As leveret 'scaped from greyhound's jaws ; 

But still she look'd, howe'er distress'd, 

The secret in her boding breast ; 

Dreading her sire, who oft forbade 

Her steps should stray to distant glade 

Night came — to her accustom'd nook 

Her distaff aged Jutta took. 

And by the lamp's imperfect glow, 

Rough Wulfstane trimm'd his shafts and 

bow. 
Sudden and clamorous, from the ground 
Upstarted slumbering brach and hound ; 



Loud knocking next the lodge alarms, 
And Wulfstane snatches at his arms. 
When open flew the yielding door. 
And that grim Warrior press'd the fioor. 



" All peace be here. — What ! none replies, 
Dismiss yoirr fears, and your surprise. 
'Tis I— that Maid hath told my tale,— 
Or, trembler, did thy courage fail .'' 
It recks not — It is I demand 
Fair Metelill in marriage band ; 
Harold the Dauntless 1, whose name 
Is brave men's boast and caitiff's shame.'* 
The parents sought each other's eyes, 
With awe, resentment, and surprise : 
Wulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began 
The stranger's size and thewes to scan ; 
But as he scann'd his courage sunk. 
And from unequal strife he shrunk, 
Then forth, to blight and blemish, flics 
The harmful curse from Jutta's eyes; 
Yet, fatal howsoe'er, the spell 
On Harold innocently fell ! 
And disappointment and amaze 
Were in the witch's wilder gaze. 



But soon the wit of woman woke, 

And to the Warrior mild she spoke : 

" Her child was all too young." — " A toy, 

The refuge of a maiden coy." — 

Again, " A powerful baron's heir 

Claims in her heart an interest fair." — 

" A trifle — whisper in his ear. 

That Harold is a suitor herfe ! " — 

Baffled at length she sought delay : 

" Would not the knight till morning stay ? 

Late was the hour — he there might rest 

Till morn, their lodge's honor'd guest." 

Such were her words, — her craft might cast^ 

Her honor'd guest should sleep his last : 

'' No, not to-night — but soon," he swore, 

«'He would return, nor leave them more." 

The threshold then his huge stride crost, 

And soon he was in darkness lost. 



Appall'd a while the parents stood, 
Then changed their fear to angry mood. 
And foremost fell their words of ill 
On unresisting Metelill : 
Was she not caution'd and forbid, 
Forewarn'd, implored, accused, and chid, 
And must she still to greenwood roam, 
To inarfibal such misfortune home? 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



•' Hence, minion — to thy chamber hence — 
There prudence learn and penitence." 
She went — her lonely couch to steep 
In tears which absent lovers weep ; 
Or if she gain'd a troubled sleep, 
Fierce Harold's suit was still the theme 
And terror of her feverish dream. 



Scarce was she gone, her dame and sire 

Upon each other bent their ire ; 

" A woodsman thou, and hast a spear. 

And couldst thou such an insult bear ? " 

Sullen he said, " A man contends 

With men, a witch with sprites and fiends ; 

Not to mere mortal wight belong 

Yon gloomy brow and frame so strong 

But thou — is this thy promise fair, 

That your Lord William, wealthy heir 

To Ulrick, Baron of Witton-Ie-Wear, 

Should Metelill to altar bear ? 

Do all the spells thou boasfst as thine 

Serve but to slay some peasant's kine, 

His grain in autumn's storms to steep, 

Or through fog and fen to sweep, 

And hag-ride some poor rustic's sleep ? 

Is such mean mischief worth the fame 

Of sorceress and witch's name ? 

Fame, which with all men's wish conspires, 

With thy deserts and my desires, 

To damn thy corpse to penal fires ? 

Out on thee, witch ! aroint ! aroint ! 

What now shall put thy schemes in joint ? 

What save this trusty arrow's point. 

From the dark dingle when it files, 

And he who meets it gasps and dies.' 

XV. 

Stern she replied, " I will not wage 
War with thy folly or thy rage ; 
But ere the morrow's sun be low, 
Wulfstane of Rookhope, thou shalt know, 
If I can venge me on a foe. 
Believe the while, that whatsoe'er 
I spoke, in ire, of bow and spear, 
It is not Harold's destiny 
The death of pilfer' d deer to die. 
But he, and thou, and yon pale moon, 
(Tliat shall be yet more pallid soon, 
Before she sink behind the dell,) 
Thou, she, and Harold too, shall tell 
What Jutta knows of charm or spell." 
Thus muttenng, to the door she bent 
Her wayward steps, and forth she went, 
And left alone the moody sire, 
To cherish cr to slaJce his ire. 



XVI. 

Far faster than belonged to age 

Has Jutta made her pilgrimage. 

A priest has met her as she pass'd. 

And cross'd himself and stood aghast*. 

She traced a hamlet — not a cur 

His throat would ope, his foot would stir; 

By crouch, by trembling, and by groan, 

They made her hated presence known I 

But when she trode the sable fell. 

Were wilder sounds her way to tell, — 

For far was heard the fox's yell. 

The black-cock waked and faintly crew, 

Scream'd o'er the moss the scared curlew ; 

Where o'er the cataract the oak 

Lay slant, was heard the raven's croak ; 

The mountain-cat, which sought his prey, 

Glared, scream'd, and started from her way : 

Such music cheer'd her journey lone 

To the deep dell and rocking stone ; 

There, with unhallow'd hymn of praise, 

She called a God of heathen days. 



INVOCATION. 

" From thy Pomeranian throne, 
Hewn in rock of living stone, 
Where, to thy godhead faithful yet. 
Bend Esthonian, Finn, and Lett, 
And their swords in vengeance whet. 
That shall make thine altars wet, 
Wet and red for ages more 
With the Christians' hated gore, — 
Hear me ! Sovereign of the Rock, 
Hear me ! mighty Zernebock I 

" Mightiest of the mighty known, 
Here thy wonders have been shown ; 
Hundred tribes in various tongue 
Oft have here thy praises sung ; 
Down that stone with Runic seam'd. 
Hundred victims' blood hath stream'd I 
Now one woman comes alone. 
And but wets it with her own, 
The last, the feeblest of thy flock, — 
Hear — and be present, Zernebock ! 

"Hark! becomes! the night-blast cold 
Wilder sweeps along the wold ; 
The cloudless moon grows dark and dinij 
And bristling hair and quaking limb 
Proclaim the Master Demon nigh, — 
Those who view his form shall die ! 
Lo ! I stoop and veil my head ; 
Thou who ridest the tempest dread, 
Shaking hill and rending oak — 
Spare me ! spare me ! Zernebock. 



320 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



** He comes not yet ! shall cold delay 
Thy votaress at her need repay '' 
Thou — shall I call thee god or fiend ? — 
Let others on thy mood attend 
With prayer and ritual — Jutta's arms 
Are necromantic words and charms ; 
Mme is the spell, that, utter'd once, 
Shall wake Thy Master from his trance, 
Shake his red mansion-house of pain, 
And burst his seven-times-twisted chain 1— 
So ! com'st thou ere the spell is spoke ? 
I own thy presence, Zernebosk." — 

XVIII. 

" Daughter of dust," the Deep Voice said, 

—Shook while it spoke the vale for dread, 

Rock'd on the base that massive stone. 

The Evil Deity to own,— 

" Daughter of dust ! not mine the power 

Thou seek'st on Harold's fatal hour. 

'Twixt heaven and hell" there is a strife 

Waged for his soul and for his life, 

And fain would we the combat win, 

And snatch him in his hour of sin. 

There is a star now rising red. 

That threats him with an influence dread : 

Woman, thine arts of malice whet, 

To use the space before it set. 

Involve him with the Church in strife, 

Push on adventurous chance his life ; 

Ourself will in the hour of need, 

As best we may thy counsels speed." 

So ceased the Voice ; for seven leagues 

round 
Each hamlet started at the sound ; 
But slept again, as slowly died 
Its thunders on the hill's brown side. 

XIX. 

"And is this all," said Jutta stern, 
> I'hat thou canst teach and I can learn ? 
Hence ! to the land of fog and waste, 
There fittest is thine influence placed, 
Thou powerless, sluggish deity 1 
But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee 
Again before so poor a god." 
She struck the altar with her rod : 
Slight was the touch, as when at need 
A damsel stirs her tardy steed ; 
But to the blow the stone gave place, 
And, starting from its balanced base, 
RoU'd thundering down the moonlight deil,— 
Re-echo'd moorland, rock, and fell ; 
Into the moonlight tarn it dash'd, 
Their shores the sounding surges lash'd, 

And there was ripple, rage, and foam , 



But on that lake, so dark and lone, 
Placid and pale the moonbeam shone 
As Jutta hied her home. 



CANTO THIRD. 
I. 
Gray towers of Durham ! there was once 

a time 
I view'd your battlements with such vague 

hope, 
As brightens life in its first dawning 

prime ; 
Not that e'en then came within fancy's 

scope 
A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope ; 
Yet, gazing on the venerable hall. 
Her flattering dreams would in perspective 

ope 
Some reverend room, some prebendary's 

stall,— 
And thus Hope me deceived as she de- 

ceiveth all. 

Well yet 1 love thy mix'd and massive 

piles, 
Half church of God, half castle 'gainst the 

Scot, 
And long to roam these venerable aisles. 
With records stored of deeds long since 

forgot ; 
There might I share my Surtees' happier • 

lot, 
Who leaves at will his patrimonial field 
To ransack every crypt and hallow'd 

spot. 
And from oblivion rend the spoils they 

yield, 
Restoring priestly chant and clang of 

knightly shield. 

Vain is the wish— since other cares de- 
mand 
Each vacant hour, and in another chme ; 
But still that northern harp invites my 

hand, 
Which tells the wonder of thine earliei 

time ; 
And fain its numbers would I now com' 

mand 
To paint the beauties of that dawning 

fair, 
When Harold, gazing from its lofty stand, 
Upon the western heights of Beaur^- 

paire, 
Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by wind* 

ing Wear. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



321 



II. 

Fair on the half-seen stream tlie sun- 
beams danced, 

Betraying it beneath the woodland bank, 

And fair between the Gothic turrets 
glanced 

Broad lights, and shadows fell on front 
and flank 

And girdled m the massive donjon Keep, 

And from their circuit peal'd o'er bush 
and bank 

The main bell with summons long and 
deep, 
And echo answer'd still with long-resound- 
inp; sweep. 

III. 

The morning mists rose from the ground, 
Each merry bird awaken' d round, 

As if in revelry ; 
Afar the bugles' clanging sound 
Call'd to tl^e chase the lagging hound; 

The gale breathed soft and free^ 
And seem'd to linger on its way 
To catch fresh odors from the spray. 
And waved it in its wanton play 

So light and gamesomely. 
The scenes which morning beams reveal, 
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel 
In all their fragrance round him steal, 
It melted Harold's heart of steel, 

And, hardly wotting why, 
He doff'd his helmet's gloomy pride. 
And hung it on a tree beside, 

Laid mace and falchion by. 
And on the greensward sate him down, 
And from his dark habitual frown 

Relax'd his rugged brow — 
Whoever hath the doubtful task 
From that stern Dane a boon to ask, 

Were wise to ask it now. 



Ilis place beside young Gunnar took, 
And mark'd his master's softening look, 
And in his eye's dark mirror spied 
The gloom of stormy thoughts subside, 
And cautious watch'd the fittest tide 

To speak a warning word. 
So when the torrent's billows shrink, 
The timid pilgrim on the brink 
Waits long to s^e them wave and sink, 

Ere he dare brave the ford, 
And often after doubtful pause, 
His.-step advances or withdraws : 



Fearful to move the slumbering ire 
Of his stern lord thus stood the squire. 

Till Harold raised his eye, 
That glanced as when atliwart the .shroud 
Of the dispersing tempest-cloud 

The bursting sunbeams fly. 



" Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde, 
Offspring of prophetess and bard ! 
Take harp and greet this lovely prime 
With some high strain of Runic rhyme.. 
Strong, deep, and powerful ! Peal it round 
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound, 
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay 
Of bird and bugle hail the day. 
Such was my grandsire Eric's sport. 
When dawn gleam'd on his martial court. 
Heymar the Scald, with harp's high sound, 
Summon'd the chiefs who slept around ; 
Couch'd on the spoils of wolf and bear, 
They roused like lions from their lair, 
Then rush'd in emulation forth 
To enhance the glories of the North. — 
Proud Eric, mightiest of thy race, 
Where is thy shadowy resting place? 
In wild Valhalla hast thou quaff'd 
From foeman's skull metheglin draught . 
Or wanderest where thy cairn was piled 
To frown o'er oceans wic" ^ and wild ? 
Or have the milder Christians given 
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven ? 
Where'er thou art, to thee are known 
Our toils endured, our trophies won, 
Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes.'* 
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose. 



" Hawk and osprey screamed for joy 
O'er the beetling chffs of Hoy, 
Crimson foam the beach o'erspread. 
The heath was dyed with darker red, 
When o'er Eric, Inguar's son, 
Dane and Northman piled the stone ; 
Singing wild the war-son stern, 
' Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! ' 

" Where eddying currents foam and boil 
By Bersa's burgh and Grsemsay's isle, 
The seaman sees a martial form 
Half-mingled with the mist and storm. 
In anxious awe he bears away 
To moor his bark in Stromna's bay. 
And murmurs from the bounding st«ni, 
' Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn I ' 



322 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



"What cares disturb the mighty dead? 

Each honor'd rite was duly paid ; 

No daring hand thy helm unlaced, 

Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee 

placedj — 
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned, 
Without, with hostile blood was stain'd ; 
Within, 'twas lined with moss and 

fern, — 
Then rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! " 

" He may not rest : from realms afar 
Comes voice of battle and of war, 
Of conquest wrought with bloody hand 
On Carmel's cliffs and Jordan's strand, 
When Odin's warlike son could daunt 
The turban'd race of Termagaimt." 



" Peace," said the Knight, " the noble 

Scald 
Our warlike fathers' deeds recall'd. 
But never strove to soothe the son 
With tales of what himself had done. 
At Odin's board the bard sits high 
Whose harp ne'er stoop'd to flattery ; 
But Iiighes' he whose daring lay 
Hath dared unwelcome truths to say." 
With doubtful smile young Gunnar 

eyed 
His master's looks and noaghi. replied — 
But well that smil his master led 
To construe what he left unsaid. 
" Is it to me, thou timid youth, 
Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth ? 
My soul no more thy censure grieves 
Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves. 
Say on — and yet — beware the rude 
And wild distemper of my blood ; 
Loth were I that mine ire should v/rong 
The youth that bore my shield so long. 
And who, in service constant still. 
Though weak in frame, art strong in 

will."— 
'* Oh ! " quoth the page, " even there de- 
pends 
My counsel — there my warning tends — 
Oft seems as of my master's breast 
Some demon were the sudden guest ; 
Then at the first misconstrued word 
His hands is on the mace and sword. 
From her firm seat his wisdom driven, 
His life to countless dangers given. — 
O ! would that Gunnar could suffice, 
To be the fiend's last sacrifice, 
So that when glutted with my gore, 
He fled and tempted thee no more I " 



Then waved his hand, and shook his head 
The impatient Dane, while thus he said : 
" Profane not, youth — it is not thine 
To judge the spirit of our line — 
The bold Berserkar's rage divine. 
Through whose inspiring, deeds aro 

wrought 
Past human strength and human thought 
When full upon his gloomy soul 
The champion feels the influence roll, 
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall — 
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall- 
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes 
Sincly against a host of foes ; 
Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds, 
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds ; 
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive, 
Take countless wounds and yet survive. 
Then rush the eagles to his cry 
Of slaughter and of victory, — 
And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl, 
Deep drinks his sword,— deep drinks his 

soul ; 
And all that meet him in his ire 
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire ; 
Then, like gorged lion seeks some den, 
I And couches till he's man agen. — 
I Thou know'st the signs of look and limb, 
I When 'gins that rage to overbrim — 
; Thou know'st when I am moved, and 
\ why; 

i And when thou seest me roll mine eye, ^ 
' Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot, 
I Regard thy safety and be mute. , 
I But else speak boldy out whate'er 
\ Is fitting that a knight should hear 
j I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power 
Upon my dark and sullen hcur ; — ■ 
So Christian monks a"ewont to say 
Demons of old were charmed away ; 
Then fear not I will rashly deem 
111 of thy speech, whate'er the theme '* 

IX, 

As down some strait in doubt and dread 
The watchful pilot drops the lead. 
And, cautious in the midst to steer, 
The shoaling channel sounds with fear-* 
So, lest on dangerous ground he swerves. 
The Page his master's brow observed, 
Pausing at intervals to fling 
His hand o'er the melodious string, 
And to his moody breast apply 
The soothing charm of harmony, 
While hinted half, and half exprest. 
This warning song convey' d the rest.-— ) 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



2>n 



" 111 fares tha bark with tackle riven, 
And ill when on the breakers driven, — 
111 when the storm-sprite shrieks in air, 
And the scared mermaid tears her hair ; 
But worse when on her helm the hand 
Of some false traitor holds command. 



" 111 fares the fainting Palmer, placed 

'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste, — 

111 when the scorching sun is high, 

And the expected font is dry, — 

Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath, 

The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his death. 



»* 111 fares the Knight with buckler cleft. 
And ill when of his helm bereft,— 
111 when his steed to earth is flung, 
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung ; 
But worse, if instant ruin token. 
When he lists rede by woman spoken. "- 



" How now, fond boy t — Canst thou think 

ill," 
S.wd Harold, " of fair Metelill ? "- 
•' She may be fair," the Page replied, 

As through the strings he ranged, — 
" She may be fair ; but yet,'' he cried, 

And then the strain he changed, 



I. 

** She may be fair," he sang, " but yet 

Far fairer have I seen 
Than she, for all her locks of jet, 

And eyes so dark and sheen. 
Were I a Danish knight in arms, 

As one day I may be, 
My heart should own no foreign charms, 

A Danish maid for me. 



" I love my father's northern land. 

Where the dark pine-trees grow. 
And the bold Baltic's echoing strand 

Looks o'er each grassy oe.* 
1 love to mark the lingering sun, 

From Denmark loth to go. 
And leaving on the billows bright, 
To cheer the sliort-lived summer night, 

A path of ruddy glow. 



'0^, Island. 



" But most the northern maid I love, 

With breast like Demmark's snow, 
And form as fair as Denmark's pine. 
Who loves with purple heath to twine 

Her locks of sunny glow ; 
And sweetly blends that shade of gold 

With the cheek's rosy hue. 
And Faith might for her mirror hold 

That eye of matchless blue. 

4. 
" 'Tis hers the manly sports to love 

That southern maidens fear, 
To bend the bow by stream and grove, 

And lift the hunter's spear. 
She can her chosen champion's flight 

With eye undazzled see. 
Clasp him victorious from the strife, 
Or on his corpse yield up her life,— 

i^ Danish maid for mo ! " 
XI. 

Then sm.iled the Dane—" Thou canst so 

well 
The virtues of our maidens tell^ 
Half could 1 wish my choice had been 
Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen, 
And lofty soul ;— yet what of ill 
Hast thou to charge on Metelill ?"— 
" Nothing on her,." young Gunnar said, 
'• But her base sire's ignolDle trade. 
Her mother, too— the general fame 
Hath given to Jutta evil name. 
And in her gray eye is a flame 
Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame. — 
That sordid woodman's peasant cot 
Twice have thine honor'd footsteps 

sought. 
And twice return'd with such ill rede • 
As sent thee on some desperate deed." — 

XII. 

" Thou errest ; Jutta wisely said. 

He that comes suitor to a maid. 

Ere link'd in marriage, should provide 

Lands and a dwelling for his bride — 

My father's, by the Tyne and Wear, 

I have reclaim'd." — " O, all too dear, 

And all too dangerous the prize, 

E'en were it won," young Gunnar cries ; — 

•' And then this Jutta's fresh device. 

That thou shouldst seek, a heatlien Dane, 

From Durham's priests a boon to gain. 

When thou hast left their vassals slain 

In their own halls !"— Flash'd Harold's 

eye, 
Thunder'd his voice — " False Page, you lie I 



324 



scorrs poetical works. 



The castle, hall and tower, is mine, 
Built by old Witikind on Tyne. 
The wild-cat will defend his den. 
Fights for her nest the timid wren ; 
And think'st thou I'll forego my right 
For dread of monk or monkish knight ? 
Up and away, that deepenmg bell 
Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell. 
Thither will I, in manner due. 
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue; 
And, if to right me they are loth, 
Then woe to church and chapter both ! " 
Now shift the scene, and let the curtain 

fall, 
And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's 

hall. 



CANTO IV. 



Full vmsj^j a bard hath sung the solemn 

gloom 
Of the long Gothic aisle and stone-ribb'd 

roof, 
O'er-canopying shrine, and gorgeous 

tomb. 
Carved screen, an altar glimmering far 

aloof, 
And blending with the shade, — a matchless 

proof 
Of high devotion, which hath now wax'd 

cold ; 
Yet legends say, that Luxury's brute 

hoof 
Intruded oft withm such sacred fold. 
Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd in his 

fane of old. 

■ Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when the 

rout 
Of our rude neighbors whilome deign'd 

to come, 
Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to sweep 

out 
And cleanse our chancel from the rags of 

Rome, 
They spoke not on our ancient fane the 

doom 
To which their bigot zeal gave o'er their 

own, 
But spared the martyr'd saint and storied 

tomb, 
Though papal miracles had graced the 

stone, 
And though the aisles still loved the organ's 

swelling tone. 



And deem not, though 'tis now my part to 

paint 
A Prelate sway'd by love of power and 

gold, 
That all wlio wore the mitre of our Saint 
Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold ; 
Since both in modern times and days of 

old 
It sate on those whose virtues might atone 
Their predecessors' frailties trebly told ; 
Matthew and Morton we as such may 

own — 
And such (if fame speak truth) the honor'd 

Barrington 



But now to earlier and to ruder times, 
As subject meet, I tune my rugged 

rhymes, 
Telling how fairly the chapter was met, 
And rood and books in seemly order set ; 
Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the 

hand 
Of studious priest but rarely scann'd, 
Now on fair carved desk display'd, 
Twas theirs the solemn scene to aid. 
O'erhead with many a scutcheon graced, 
And quaint it devices interlaced, 
A labyrinth of crossing rows, 
The roof in lessening arches shows ; 
Beneath its shade placed proud and higli 
With footstool and with canopy. 
Sate Aldingar, — and prelate ne'er 
More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's 

chair ; 
Canons and deacons were placed below, 
In due degree and lengthen'd row. 
Unmoved and silent each sat there. 
Like image in his oaken chair ; 
Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they stirr'd, 
Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard ; 
And of their eyes severe alone 
The twinkle show'd they were not stone. 

III. 

The Prelate was to speech address'd, 
Each head sunk reverent on each breast j 
But ere his voice was heard — without 
Arose a wild tumultuous shout, 
Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear, 
Such as in crowded streets we hear 
Hailing the flames, that, bursting out, 
Attract yet scare the rabble rout. 
Ere it had ceased, a giant hand 
Shook oaken door and iron band, 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS, 



3^S 



Till oak and iron both gave way, 
Clash 'd the long bolts, the hinges bray. 
And, ere upon angel or saint they can 

call, 
Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of 

the hail. 

IV. 
" Now save ye, my masters, both rochet and 

rood, 
From Bishop with mitre to Deacon with 

hood ! 
For here stands Count Harold, old Witi- 

kind's son. 
Come to sue for the lands which his ances- 
tors won." 
The Prelate look'd round him with sore 

troubled eye, 
Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny ; 
While each Canon and Deacon who heard 

the Dane speak. 
To be safely at home would have fasted a 

week : — 
Then Aldingar roused him, and answer'd 

again, 
" Thou suest for a boon which thou canst 

not obtain ; 
The Church hath no fiefs for an unchristen'd 

Dane. 
Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath 

given. 
That the priests of a chantry might hymn 

him to heaven ; 
And the fiefs which whilome he possess'd as 

his due, 
Have lapsed to the Church, and been grant- 
ed anew 
To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere, 
For the service Saint Cuthbert's bless'd 

banner to bear. 
When the bands of the North come to foray 

the Wear ; 
Then disturb not our conclave with wrang- 
ling or blame. 
But in peace and in patience pass hence as 

ye came." 

V. 

Loud laugh'd the stern Pagan, — " They're 

free from the care 
Of fief and of service, both Conyers and 

Vere, — 
Six feet of your chancel is all they will need, 
A buckler of stone and a corslet of lead. — 
Ho, Gunnar ! — the tokens ; " — and, sever'd 

anew, 
A head and a hand on the altar he 

threw. 



Then shudder'd with terror both Canon and 
Monk, 

They knew the glazed eye and the counte- 
nance shrunk. 

And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled 
hair, 

And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic 
Vere. 

There was not a churchman or priest that 
was there, 

But grew pale at the sight, and betook him 
to prayer 

VI. 

Count Harold laugh'd at their looks of 

fear : 
" Was this the hand should your banner 

bear ? 
Was that the head should wear the casque 
In battle at the Church's task ? 
Was it to such you gave the place 
Of Harold with the heavy mace ? 
Find me between the Wear and Tyne 
A knight will wield this club of mine, — 
Give him my fiefs, and I will say 
There's wit beneath the cowl of gray." 
He raised it, rough with many a stain, 
Caught from crush'd skull and spouting 

brain ! 
He wheel'd it that it shrilly sung. 
And the aisles echo'd as it swung, 
Then dash'd it down with sheer descent, 
And split King Osric's monument. — 
" How like ye this music ! How trow ye 

the hand 
That can wield such a mace may be reft of 

its land ? 
No answer ? — I spare 5'e a space to agree, 
And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if 

he be. 
Ten strides through your chancel, ten 

strokes on your bell, 
And again I am with you — grave fathers, 

farewell." 

VII. 

He turn'd from their presence, he clash'd 

the oak door. 
And the clang of his stride died away on the' 

floor ; « 

And his head from his bosom the Prelate 

uprears 
With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost 

disappears, 
" Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give 

me your rede. 
For never of counsel had Bishop mora 

need I ' 



326 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and 

in bone, 
The language, the look, and the laugh were 

his own. 
In the bounds of Saint Cuthbsrt there is not 

a knight 
Dare confront in our quarrel yon goblin in 

fight; 
Then rede me aright to his claim to reply, 
.'Tis unlawful to grant, and 'tis death to 

deny." 

VIII. 

On venison and malmsie that morning had 

fed, 
The Cellarer Vinsauf — 'twas thus that he 

said : 
" Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's reply ; 
Let the feast be spread fair, and the wine be 

pour'd high : 
If he's mortal he drinks, — if he drinks, he is 

ours — 
His bracelets of iron, — his bed in our 

towers." 
This man had a laughing eye, 
Trust not, friends, when such you spy ; 
A beaker's depth he well could drain. 
Revel, sport, and jest amain — 
The haunch of the deer and the grape's 

bright dye 
Never bard loved them better than I ; 
But sooner than Vinsauf fiU'd me my wine, 
Pass'd me his jest, and laugh'd at mine. 
Though the buck were of Bearpark, of Bor- 
deaux the vine, 
With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine 
On an oaken cake and a draught of the 

Tyne. 

IX. 

Walwayn the leech spoke next — he knew 
Each plant that loves the sun and dew, 
But special those whose juice can gain 
Dominion o'er the blood and brain ; 
The peasant who saw him by pale moon- 

beAm 
Gathering such herbs by bank and stream, 
Deem'd his thin form and soundless tread 
Were those of wanderer from the dead. — 
" Vinsauf, thy wine," he said, " hath 

power; 
Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower ; 
Yet three drops from this flask ot mine. 
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or wine, 
Shall give him prison under ground 
More dark, more narrow, more profound. 
Short rede, good rede, let Harold have— 
A dos's death, and a heathen's grave." 



I have lain on a sick man's bed, 
Watching for hours for the leech's tread, 
As if 1 deem'd that his presence alone 
Were of power to bid my pain begone ; 
I have listed his words of comfort given, 
As if to oracles from heaven ; 
1 have counted his steps from my chamber 

door, 
And bless'd them when they were heard no 

more ; — 
But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch 

should nigh. 
My choice were, by leech-craft unaided, to 

die. 



" Such service done in fervent zeal 
The Church may pardon and conceal," 
The doubtful Prelate said, " but ne'er 
The counsel ere the act should hear. — 
Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now. 
The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow ; 
Thy days, thy nights, in cloister pent. 
Are still to mystic learning lent ; — 
Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope, 
Thou well may'st give counsel to Prelate or 
Pope." 



Answer'd the Prior — " 'Tis wisdom's use 
Still to delay what we dare not refuse : 
Ere granting the boon he comes hither to ask, 
Shape for the giant gigantic task ; 
Let us see how a step so sounding can 

tread 
In paths of darkness, danger, and dread ; 
He may not, he will not, impugn our 

decree. 
That calls but for proof of his chivalry ; 
And were Guy to return, or 'Sir Bevis the 

Strong, 
Our wilds have adventure might cumber 

them long — 
The Castle of Seven Shields " " Kind 

Anselm, no more ! 
The step of the Pagan approaclies ti;e 

door." 
The churchmen were hush'd. Tn hi?mantlo 

of skin, 
With his mace on his shoulder, Count 

Harold strode in. 
There was foam on his lips, there was fire 

in his eye, 
For, chafed by attendance, his fury was nigh, 
"Ho! Bishop," he said, " dost thou grant 

me my claim ? 
Or must I as.'sert it by falchicul and 

flame ? "— 



HAROLD TH& DAUNTLESS. 



327 



•* On thy suit, gallant Harold," the Bishop 

replied, 
In accents which trembled, " we may not 

decide, 
Until proof of your strength and your 

valor we saw — 
'Tis not that we doubt them, but such is 

the law." — 
•* And would you. Sir Prelate, have Harold 

make sport 
For the cowls and the shavelings that 

herd in thy court ? 
Say what shall he do ? — From the shrine 

sliall he tear 
The lead bier of thy patron, and heave it 

in air, 
And through the long chancel make 

Cuthbert take wing, 
With the speed of a bullet dismissal from 

the sling ? " — [said, 

** Nay, spare such probation," the Cellarer 
"From the mouth of our minstrels thy 

task shall be read. 
While the wine sparkles high in the goblet 

of gold, [told ; 

And the revel is loudest, thy task shall be 
And thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hear- 
ing it, tell 
That the Bishop, his cowls, and his shave- 
lings, meant well." 

XIII. 

Loud revell'd the guests, and the goblets 

loud rang. 
But louder the minstrel, Hugh Meneville, 

sang , 
And Harold, the hurry and pride of 

whose soul. 
E'en when verging to fury, own'd music's 

control. 
Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye, 
And often untasted the goblet pass'd by ; 
Than wine, or than wassail, to him was 

more dear 
The minstrel's high tale of enchantment to 

hear ; 
And the Bishop that day might of Vinsauf 

complain 
That his art had but wasted his wine-casks 

in vain. 

XIV. 
THE CASTLE OF THE SEVEN SHIELDS. 

A Ballad. 
The Druid Urien had daughters seven, 
Their skill could call the moon from 
heaven • 



So fair their forms and so high their 

fame. 
That seven proud kings for their suitors 

came. 
King Mador and Rhys came from Pcwis 

and Wales, 
Unshorn was their hair, and unpruned 

was their nails ; 
From Strath-Clwyde was Ewain, and 

Ewain was lame, 
And the red-bearded Donald from Gal- 
loway came. 
Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchback'd 

from youth ; 
Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth ; 
But Adolf of Bambrough, Northumber- 
land's heir, 
Was gay and was gallant, was young and 

was fair. 
There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for 

each jne would have 
For hiisband King Adolf, the gallant And 

brave ; 
And envy bred hate, and hate urged them 

to blows. 
When the firm earth was cleft, and the 

Arch-fiend arose 1 

He swore to the maidens their wish to 

fulfil— 
They swore to the foe they would work by 

his will. 
A spindle and distaff to each hath he 

given, 
" Now hearken my.spell," said the Outcast 

of heaven. 

" Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight 
hour. 

And for every spindle shall rise a tower, 

Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong 
shall have power. 

And there shall ye dwell with your para- 
mour." 

Beneath the pale moonlight they sate en 

the wold, 
And the rhymes which they chanted musl 

never be told ; 
And as the black wool from the distaff 

they sped. 
With blood from their bosom they 

moisten'd the thread. 

As light danced the spindles beneath tha 

cold gleam. 
The castle arose like the birth of a 

dream — 



32S 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



The seven towers ascended like mist from 

the ground, 
Seven portals defend them, seven ditches 

surround. 

Within that dread castle seven monarchs 
were wed, 

But six of the seven ere the morning lay 
dead ; 

With their eyes all on fire, and their 
daggers all red, 

Seven damsels surround the Northum- 
brian's bed. 

" Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have 

done, 
Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath 

won. 
SLx lovely brides all his pleasures to do, 
Or the bed of the seventh shall be hus- 

bandless too." 

Well chanced it that Adolf the night when 
he wed. 

Had confess'd and had sain'd him ere 
boune to his bed ; 

He sprung from the couch and the broad- 
sword he drew, 

And tliere the seven daughters of Urien he 
slew. 

The gate of the castle he bolted and seal'd. 
And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown 

and a shield ; 
To the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended 

his way. 
And died in his cloister an anchorite gray. 

Seven monarchs* wealth in that castle lies 

stow'd. 
The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven 

and toad. 
Whoever shall guesten these chambers 

within, 
From curfew till matins, that treasure 

shall win. 

But manhood grows faint as the world 

waxes old ! 
Xliere lives not in Britain a champion so 

bold, 
So dauntless of heart, and so prudent of 

brain, 
As to dare the adventure that treasure to 

gain. 

The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with 
the rye, 

Before the nide Scots shall Northumber- 
land fly, 



And the flint cliffs of Bambro' shall melt 

in the sun, 
Before that adventure be perill'd and won. 

XV. 

" And is this my probation ? " v/ild Harold 

he said, 
" Within a lone castle to press a lone 

bed?— 
Good even-, my Lord Bishop, — Saint 

Cuthbert to borrow. 
The Castle of Seven Shields receives me 

to-morrow." 



CANTON FIFTH. 
I. 

Denmark's sage courtier to her princely 

youth. 
Granting his cloud an ouzel or a whale. 
Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial 

truth ; 
For Fantasy embroiders Nature's veil, 
The tints of ruddy eve, or dawning pale, 
Of the swart thunder-cloud, or silver 

haze, 
Are but the ground-work of the ricli 

detail 
Which Fantasy with pencil wild por- 
trays, 
Blending what seems and is, in the rapt 
muser's gaze. 

Nor are the stubborn forms of earth and 

stone 
Less to the Sorceress's empire given ; 
For not with unsubstantial hues alone. 
Caught from the varying surge, or 

vacant heaven, 
From bursting sunbeam or from flash- 
ing levin, 
She limns her pictures : on the earth, as 

air, 
Arise her castles, and her car is driven ; 
And never gazed the eye on scene so 

fair. 
But of its boasted charms gave Fancy half 

the share. 

n. 
Up a wild pass went Harold, bent to 

prove, 
Hugh Meneville, the adventurer of thy 

lay: 
Gunnar piusued his steps in faith and 

love. 
Ever companion of his master's way. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



329 



Midward their path, a rock of granite gray 

From the adjoining cliff had made de- 
scent, — • 

A barren mass— yet with her drooping 
spray 

Had a young birch-tree crown'd its battle- 
ment, 
Twisting her fibrous roots through cranny, 
flaw, and rent. 

This rock and tree could Gunnar's thought 

engage 
Till Fancy brought the tear-drop to his 

eye, 
And at his master ask'd the timid Page, 
" What is the emblem that a bard should 

spy 
In that rude rock and its green canopy ? " 
And Harold said, " Like to the helmet 

brave 
Of warrior slain in fight it seems to lie. 
And these same drooping boughs do o'er it 

wave 
Not all unlike the plume his lady's favor 

gave." — 

" Ah, no ! " replied the Page ; " the ill- 
starr'd love 

Of some poor maid is in the emblem 
shown, 

Whose fates are with some hero's inter- 
wove, 

And rooted on a heart to love unknown : 

And as the gentle dews of heaven alone 

Nourish those drooping boughs, and as 
the scathe 

Of the red lightning rends both tree and 
stone, 

St) fares it with her unrequited faith.— 
Her sole relief is tears — her only refuge 
death."— 



" Thou art a fond fantastic boy," 
Harold replied, " to females coy^ 

Yet prating still of love ; 
Even so amid the clash of war 
I know thou lovest to keep afar, 
Though destined by thy evil star 

With one like me to rove, 
Whose business and whose joys are found 
Upon the bloody battle-ground. 
Yet, foolish trembler as thou art, 
Thou hast a nook of my rude heart, 
And thou and I will never part ; — 
Harold would wrap the world m flame 
Ere injury on Gunnar came ! " 



The grateful Page made no reply, 
But turn'd to Heaven his gentle eye, 
And clasp'd his hands, as one who said, 
" My toils — my wanderings are o'erpaid !'' 
Then in a gayer, lighter strain, 
Compell'd himself to speech again ; 

And, as they flow'd along. 
His words took cadence soft and slow 
And liquid, like dissolving snow, 

They melted into song. 



" What though through fields of carnage 

wide 
I may not follow Harold's stride, 
Yet who with faithful Gunnar's pride 

Lord Harold's feats can see .' 
And dearer than the couch of pride 
He loves the bed of gray wolf's hide, 
When slumbering by Lord Harold's side 

In forest, field, or lea."— 

VI. 

" Break off ! " said Harold, in a tone 
Wliere hurry and surprise were shown, 

With some slight touch of fear, — 
" Break off ! we are not here alone ; 
A Palmer form comes slowly on J 
By cowl, and staff, and mantle known. 

My monitor is near. 
Now mark him, Gunnar, heedfully , 
He pauses by the blighted tree — 
Dost see him, youth ? — Thou couldst not see 
When in the vale of Galilee 

I first beheld his form. 
Nor when we met that other while 
In Cephalonia's rocky isle. 

Before the fearful storm, — 
Dost see him now .? " — The Page, distraught 
With terror, answer'd, " I see nought, 

And there is nought to see, 
Save that the oak's scathed boughs filag 

down 
Upon the path a shadow brown. 
That, like a pilgrim's dusky gown^ 

Waves with the waving tree." 

vir. 
Count Harold gazed upon the oak 
As if his eyestrings would have broke, 

And then resolvedly said,— 
" Be what it v/ill yon phantom gray— - 
Nor heaven nor hell shall ever say 
That for their shadows from his way 

Count Harold turn'd dismayed : • 



33 o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



I'll speak him, though his accents fill 
My heart with that unwonted thrill 

Which vulgar minds call fear. 
I will subdue it ! " — Forth he strode, 
Paused where the blighted oak-tree show'd 
Its sable shadow on the road, 
And, folding on his bosom broad 

His arms, said, " Speak — I hear." 

VIII. 

The Deep Voice said, " O wild of will, 
Furious thy purpose to fulfil — 
Heart-sear'd and unrepentant still, 
How long, O Harold, shall thy tread 
Disturb the slumbers of the dead ? 
Each step in thy wild way thou makest, 
The ashes of the dead thou wakest ; 
And shout in triumph o'er thy path 
The fiends of bloodshed and of wrath. 
In this thine hour, yet turn and hear ! 
For life is brief and judgment near." 



Then ceased The Voice.— The Dane replied 
In tones where awe and inborn pride 
For mastery strove, — " In vain ye chide 
The wolf for ravaging the flock. 
Or with its hardness taunt the rock, — 
I am as they — my Danish strain 
Sends streams of fire through every vein. 
Amid thy realms of ghoul and ghost, 
Say, is the fame of Eric lost. 
Or Witikind's the Waster, known 
Where fame or spoil was to be won ; 
Whose galleys ne'er bore off a shore 
They left not black with flame ? — 
He was my sire, — and, sprung of him. 
That rover merciless and grim, 
Can I be soft and tame ? 
Part hence, and with my crimes no more 

upbraid me, 
I am that Waster's son, and am but what 
he made me." 



The Phantom groan'd ; — the mountain 

shook around, 
The fawn and wild doe started at the sound. 
The gorse and fern did wildly round them 

wave, 
As if some sudden storm the impulse gave. 
" All thou hast said is truth— Yet on the head 
Of that bad sire let not the charge be laid, 
That he, like thee, with unrelenting pace. 
From grave to crad'f ran the evil Kvce : — 



Relentless in his avarice and ire, 
Churches and towns he gave to sword and 

fire; 
Shed blood like water, wasted every land, 
Like the destroying angel's burning brand; 
Fulfill'd whate'er of ill might be invented. 
Yes — all these things he did — he did, but he 

REPENTED ! 

Perchance it is part of his punishment still, 
That his offspring pursues his example of ill. 
But thou, when thy tempest of v/rath shall 

next shake thee. 
Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and 

awake thee ; 
If thou yield'st to thy fury, how tempted 

soever, 
The gate of repentance shall ope for thee 

NEVER ! " 



XI. 



" He is gone," said Lord Harold, and gazed 

as he spoke ; 
" There is nought on the path but the shade 

of the oak. 
He is gone, whose strange presence my 

feeling oppress' d. 
Like the night-hag that sits on the slum. 

berer's breast. 
My heart beats as thick as a fugitive's tread. 
And cold dews drop from my brow and my 

head. — 
Ho ! Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner gave ; 
He said that three drops would recall from 

the grave. 
For the first time Count Harold owns leech- 
craft has power. 
Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a 

flower I " . 

The page gave the flasket, which WahvajTi 

had fiil'd 
With the juice of wild roots that his art had 

distill'd— 
So baneful their influence on all that had 

breath. 
One drop had been frenzy, and two had been 

death. 
Harold took it, but drank not ; for jubilee 

shrill, 
And music and clamor were heard on the 

hill. 
And down the steep pathway, o'er stock and 

o'er stone. 
The train of a bridal came blitliesomely on ; 
There was song, there was pipe, there was 

timbrel, and still 
The burden was, " Joy to the fair Metelill !" 



HAROLD THE DA UNTLESS. 



33t 



Harold might see from his high stance, 
Himself unseen, that train advance 

With mirth and melody ; — 
On horse and foot a mingled throng, 
Measuring their steps to bridal song 

And bridal minstrelsy; 
And ever when the blithesome rout 
Lent to the song their choral shout, 
Redoubling echoes roll'd about, 
While echoing cave and cliffs sent out 

The answering symphony 
Of all those mimic notes which dwell 
In hollow rock and sounding dell. 

XIII. 

Joy shook his torch above the band. 

By many a various passion fann'd ; — 

As elemental sparks can feed 

On essence pure and coarsest weed, 

Gentle, or stormy, or refined, 

Joy takes the colors of the mind. 

Lightsome and pure, but imrepress'd, 

He fired the bridegroom's gallant breast ; 

More feebly strove with maiden fear. 

Yet still joy glimmer'd through the tear 

On the bride's blushing cheek, that shows 

Like devvdrop on the budding rose ; 

While Wulfstane's gloomy smile declared 

The glee that selfish avarice shared, 

A.nd pleased revenge and malice liigh 

Joy's semblance took in Jutta's eye. 

On dangerous adventure sped. 

The witch deem'd Harold with the dead, 

For thus that morn her Demon said : 

" If, ere the set of sun, be tied 

The Knot 'twixt bridegroom and his bride, 

The Dane shall have no power of ill 

O'er William and o'er Metelill." 

And the pleased witch made answer, 

" Then 
Must Harold have pass'd from the paths of 

men ! 
Evil repose may his spirit have, — 
May hemlock and mandrake find root in 

his grave,— 
May his death-sleep be dogged by dreams 

of dismay. 
And his waking be worse at the answering 

day." 

XIV. 

Such was their various mood of glee 
Blent in one shout of ecstacy. 
But still when Joy is brimming highest, 
Of Sorrow and Misfortune nighest, 
Of Terror with her ague cheek, 
And lurking Danger, sages speak : — 



These haunt each path, but chief they 

lay 
Their snares beside the primrose way.— 
Tluis found that bridal band their path 
Beset by Harold in his wrath. 
Trembling beneath his maddening mood. 
High on a rock the giant stood ; 
His shout was like the doom of death 
Spoke o'er their heads that pass'd beneatk. 
His destined victims might not spy 
The reddening terrors of his eye, — 
The frown of rage that writhed his face, — 
The lip that foam'd like boar's in chase ; 
But all could see — and, seeing, all 
Bore back to shun the threaten'd fall — 
The fragment which their giant foe 
Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw. 



Backward they bore ; — yet are there two 

For battle who prepare : 
No pause of dread Lord William knew 

Ere his good blade was bare ; 
And Wulfstane bent his fatal yew, 
But ere the silken cord he drew. 
As hurl'd from Hecla's thunder, flew 

That ruin through the air ! 
Full on the outlaw's front it came. 
And all that late had human name, 
And human face, and human frame, 
That lived, and moved, and had free will 
To choose the path of good or ill. 

Is to its reckoning gone ; 
And naught of Wulfstane rests behind, 

Save that beneath that stone, 
Half-buried in the dinted clay, 
A red and shapeless mass there lay 

Of mingled flesh and bone I 

XVI. 

As from the bosom of the sky 

The eagle darts amain. 
Three bounds from yonder summit high 

Placed Harold on the plain. 
As the scared wild-fowl scream and fly. 

So fled the bridal train ; 
As 'gainst the eagle's peerless might 
The noble falcon dares the fight, 

But dares the fight in vain. 
So fought the bridegroom ; from his hand 
The Dane's rude mace has struck his brant^ 
Its glittering fragments strew the sand, 

Its lord lies on the plain. 
Now, Heaven ! take noble William's part, 
And melt that yet unmelted heart. 
Or, ere his brid:il hour depart. 

The hapless bridegroom's slain I 



332 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Cotint Harold's frenzied rage is high, 

There is a death-fire in his eye, 

Deep furrows on his brow are trench'd, 

His teeth are set, his hand is clench'd, 

The foam upon his lip is white, 

His deadly arm is up to smite 1 

But as the mace aloft he swung, 

To stop the blow young Gunnar sprung, 

-Around his master's knees he clung, 

And cried, " In mercy spare ! 
O, think upon the worjds of fear 
Spoke by that visionary Seer, 
The crisis he foretold is here, — 

Grant mercy, — or despair! " 
This word suspended Harold's mood. 
Yet still with arm upraised he stood, 
And visage like the headsman's rude 

That pauses for the sign. 
" O mark thee with the blessed rood," 
The page implored ; " speak word of good, 
Resist the fiend, or be subdued! " 

H:^ sign'd the cross divine — 
Instant his eye hath human light, 
Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright; 
His brow relax'd the obdurate frown, 
The fatal mace sinks gently down, 

He turns and strides away ; 
Yet oft, lik: revellers who leave 
Unfinish'd feast, locks back to grieve, 
As if repenting the reprieve 

He granted to his prey. 
Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he 

given, 
And fi^rca Witikind's son made one step 
towards heaven. 



But though his dreaded footsteps part, 
Death is behind and shakes his dart ; 
Lord William on the plain is lying. 
Beside him Metelill seems dying !- 
Bring odors — essences in haste — 
And lo ! a flasket richly chased,— 
But Jutta the ehxir proves 
Ere pouring it for those she loves. — • 
Then Walwayn's potion was not wasted, 
For when three drops the hag had tasted, 

So dismal was her yell. 
Each bird of evil omen woke. 
The raven gave h:s fatal croak, 
And shriek'd the night-crow from the oak, 
The screech -ovvl 'rom the thicket broke, 

And flutter'd down the dell I 
So fearful was t^e sound and stern. 
The slumbers ct the fu"-gorged erne 



Were startled, and from furze and fern 

Of forest and of fell. 
The fox and famish'd wolf replied, 
(For wolves then prowl'd the Cheviot sidcj 
From movptain head to mountain head 
The unhallow'd sounds around were sped; 
But when their latest echo fled, 
The sorceress on the ground lay dead. 



Such was the scene of blood and woes, 
With which the bridal morn arose 

Of William and of Metelill ; 
But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread, 
""he summer morn peeps dim and red 

Above the eastern hill, 
Ere, bright and fair, upon his road 
The King of Splendor walks '.broad ; 
So when this cloud iiad pass'd away, 
Bright was the noontide of their day, 
And all serene its setting ray. 



CANTO SIXTH. 



I. 



Well do I hope that this my minstrel 

tale 
Will tempt no traveller from southern 

fields, _ 
Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail, 
To view the Castle of these Seven Proud 

Shields. 
Small confirmation its condition yields 
To Meneville's high lay, — No towers 

are seen 
On the wild heath, but those that Fancy 

builds, 
And, save 'a fosse that tracks the mock 

with green, 
Is naught remains to tell of what maj 

there have been. 

And yet grave authors, with the no 

small waste 
Of their grave time, have dignified the 

spot 
By theories, to prove the fortress placed 
By Roman bands, to curb the invading 

Scot. 
Hutchinson, Horsley, Camden, I might 

quote, 
But rather choose the theory less civil 
Of boors, who, origin of things forgot. 
Refer still to the origin of evil, 
And fur tlieir master-mason choose that 

master-fiend the DeviL 



HAROLD THE DA UNTLESS. 



333 



Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built 

towers 
That stout Count Harold bent his won- 
dering gaze. 
When evening dew was on the heather 

flowers, 
And the last sunbeams made the moun 

tain blaze, 
And tinged the battlements of other days 
With the bright level light ere sinking 

down. — 
Illummed thus, the Dauntless Dane 

surveys 
The Seven Proud Shields that o'er the 

portal frown 
And on their blazons traced high marks of 

old renown. 

A wolf North Whales had on his armor- 
coat, 

And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag ; 

Strath-Clwyde's strange emblem was a 
stranded boat, 

Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag ; 

A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag ; 

A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail worn ; 

Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat crag 

Surmounted by a cross— such signs were 
borne 
Upon these antique shields, all wasted now 
and worn. 

III. 

These scann'd. Count Harold sought the 

castle door, 
Wliose ponderous bolts were rusted to 

decay ; 
Yet till that hour adventurous knight 

forbore 
The unobstructed passage to essay. 
More strong than armed warders in array, 
And obstacle more sure than bolt or bar, 
State in tlie portal Terror and Dismay, 
While Superstition, who forbade to war 
With foes of other mould than mortal clay. 
Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd the 

onward way. 

Vain now these spells; for soon with 

heavy clank 
The feebly-fasten'd gate was inward 

push'd, 



And, as it oped, through that emblazon'd 

rank 
Of antique shields, the wind of evening 

rush'd 
With sound most like a groan, and then 

was hush'd. 
Is none who on such spot such sounds 

could hear 
But to his heart the blood had faster 

rush'd ; 
Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb 

was dear — 
It spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch of 

fear. 

IV 

Yet Harold and his Page no signs have 

traced 
Within the castle, that of danger show'd \ 
For still the halls and courts were wild 

and waste, 
As through their precincts the adventurers 

trode. 
The seven huge towers rose stately, tall, 

and broad, 
Each tower presenting to th.^ir scrutiny 
A hall in which a kmg mij-'h'; make abode, 
And fast beside, garnisli'J both proud 

and high. 
Was placed a bower for rest in which a king 

might lie. 

As if a bridal there of late had been, 
Deck'd stood the tabl<j in each gorgeous 

hall ; 
And yet it was two hundred years, I Aveen, 
Since date of that unhallow'd festival. 
Flagons, and ewers, and standmg cups; 

were all 
Of tarnish'd gold, or silver nothing clear, 
With throne begilt, and canopy of pall, 
And tapestry clothed the walls with frag 

ments sear — 
Frail as the spider's mesh did that rich 

woof appear. 



In every bower, as round i\ hearse, was 

hung 
A dusky crimson curtain o'er the bed, 
And on each couch in ghastly wise were 

flung 
The wasted relics of a monarch dead ; 
Barbaric ornaments around were spread, 
Vests twined with gold, and chains of 

precious stone. 
And golden c'xclets. meet for monarch's 

head : 



334 



scorrs poetical works. 



While grinn'd, as if in scorn amongst 
them thrown, 
The wearer's flesliless skull, alike with dust 
bestrewn. 

For these were they who, drunken with 
delight, 

On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their head, 

For \vhom the bride's shy footsteps, slow 
and light, 

Was changed ere morning to the mur- 
derer's tread. 

For human bliss and woe in the frail 
thread 

Of human life are all so closely twined, 

That till the shears of Fate the texture 
shred. 

The close succession cannot be disjoin'd, 
Nor dare we, from one hour, judge that 
which comes behind. 



VI. 



But where the work of vengeance had 

been done, 
In that seventh chamber, was a sterner 

sight ; 
There of the witch-brides lay each skeleton, 
Still in the posture as to death when dight, 
For this lay prone, by one blow slain 

outright ; 
And that, as one who struggled long in 

dying ; 
One bony hand held knife, as if to smite ; 
One bent on fleshless knees, as niercy 

crying ; 
One lay across the door, as kill'd in act of 

flying. 

The stern Dane smiled this charnel-house 

to see,— 
For his chafed thought retum'd to 

Metelill ;— 
And " Well," he said, " hath woman's 

perfidy, 
Empty as air, as water volatile, 
Been here avenged. — The origin of ill 
Through woman rose, the Christian doc- 
trine saith : 
Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel 

skill 
Can show example where a woman's 

breath 
Hftth made a true-love vow, and, tempted, 

kept her faith." 



The minstrel-boy half smiled, half sigh'd, 
And his half-filling eyes he dried, 
And said, " The theme I should but wrong, 
Unless it were my dying song, 
(Our Scalds have said, in dying hour 
The northern harp has treble power,) 
Else could I tell of woman's faith. 
Defying danger, scorn, and death. 
Firm was that faith,— as diamond stone 
Pure and unflaw'd, — her love unknown, 
And unrequited ; — firm and pure, 
Her stainless faith could all endure ; 
From clime to clime, — from place to place, 
Through want, and danger, and disgrace. 
A wanderer's wayward steps could trace. — 
All this she did, and guerdon none 
Required, save that her burial-stone 
Should make at length the secret known, 
* Thus hath a faithful woman done.' — 
Not in each breast such truth is laid, 
But Eivir was a Danish maid.'' — 



" Thou art a wild enthusiast,", said 
Count Harold, " for thy Danish maid ; 
And yet, young Gunnar, I will own 
Hers were a faith to rest upon. 
But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone. 
And all resembling her are gone. 
What maid e'er show'd such constancy 
In plighted faith, like thine to me ? 
But couch thee, boy : the darksome shade 
Falls thickly round, nor be dismay'd 

Because the dead are by. 
They were as we ; our little day 
O'erspent, and we shall be as they. 
Vet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid. 
Thy couch upon my mantle made, 
That thou mayst think, should fear invade, 

Thy master slumbers nigh." 
Thus couch'd they in that dread abode, 
Until the beams of dawning glow'd. 

IX. 

An alter'd man Lord Harold rose. 
When he beheld that dawn unclose — 

There's trouble in his eyes. 
And traces on his brow and cheek 
Of mingled awe and wonder speak : 

" My page," he said, " arise ; — 
Leave we this place, my page." — No more 
He utter'd till the castle door 
Tltey cross'd — but there he paused and snidf 
" My wildness hath awaked the dead — 

Disturb' d the sacred tomb 1 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



335 



Methouslit this night I stood on high, 
Where Hecla roars in middle sky, 
And in her cavern'd gulfs could spy 

The central place of doom ; 
And there before my mortal eye 
Soids of the dead came flitting by, 
Whom fiends, with many a fiendish cry, 

Bore to that evil den ! 
My eyes grew dizzy, and my brain 
Was wilder'd, as the elvish train. 
With shriek and howl, dragg'd on amain 

Those who had late been men. 



" With haggard eyes and streaming hair, 

Jutta the Sorceress was there, 

And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately slain, 

All c'-ush'd and foul with bloody stain. ^ 

More had I seen, but that uprose 

A whirlwind wild, and swept the snows ; 

And with such sound as when at need 

A champion spurs his horse to speed, 

Three armed knights rush on, who bad 

Caparison'd a sable steed. 

Sable their harness, and there came 

Through their closed visors sparks of 

flame. 
The first proclaimed, in sounds of fear, 
' Harold the Dauntless, welcome here 1 ' 
The next cried, ' Jubilee ! we've won 
Count Witikind the Waster's son 1 ' 
And the third rider sternly spoke, 
' Mount, in the name of Zernebock ! — 
From us, O Harold, were thy powers, — 
Thy strength, thy dauntlessness, are ours ; 

Nor think, a vassal thou of hell, 
With hell can strive.' The fiend spoke 

true! 
My inmost soul the summons knew, 

As captives know the knell 
That says the headsman's sword is bare, 
And, with an accent of despair. 

Commands them quit their cell. 
I felt resistance was in vain. 
My fodt had that fell stirrup ta'en. 
My hand was on the fatal mane, 

When to my rescue sped 
That Palmer's visionary form, 
And — like the passing of a storm — 

The demons yell'd and fled ! 

XI. 

" His sable cowl flung back, reveal'd 
The features it before conceal'd ; 

And, Gunnar, I could find 
In him whose counsels strove to stay 
So oft mv course on wilful way, 

My father Witikind ! 



Doom'd for his sins, and doom'd for mine, 

A wanderer upon earth to pine 

Until his son shall turn to grace. 

And smooth for him a resting-place.- — 

Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain 

This world of wretchedness and pain : 

I'll tame my wilful heart to live 

In peace — to pity and forgive — 

And thou, for so the Vision said. 

Must in thy Lord's repentance aid. 

Thy mother was a prophetess, 

He said, who by her skill could guess 

How close the fatal textures join 

Which knit thy th'-ead of life with mine; 

Then, dark, he hinted of disguise 

She framed to cheat too curious eyes. 

That not a moment might divide 

Thy fated footsteps from my side. 

Methought while thus my sire did teach, 

I caught the meaning of his speech, 

Yet seems its purport doubtful now." 

His hand then sought his thoughtful 

brow, 
Then first he mark'd that in the tower 
His glove was left at waking hour. 



Trembling at first, and deadly pale, 
Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale ; 
But when he learn'd the dubious close, 
He blush'd like any opening rose. 
And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek. 
Hied back that glove of mail to seek; 
When soon a shriek of deadly dread 
Summon'd his master to his aid. 

XIII. 

What sees Count Harold in that bower. 

So late his resting-place ? — ■ 
The semblance of the Evil Power, 

Adored by all his race ? 
Odin in living form stood there. 
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear ; 
For plumy crest a meteor shed 
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head, 
Yet veil'd its haggard majesty 
To the wild lightnings of his eye. 
Such height was his, as when in stone 
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown : 

So flow'd his hoary beard ; 
Such was his lance of mountain-pine. 
So did his sevenfold buckler shine \-~ 

But when his voice he rear'd, 
Deep, without harshness, slow and stroag- 
The powerful accents roll'd along. 
And, while he spoke, his hand was laid 
On Captive Gunnar's shrinking head 



33^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



*' Harold," he said, " what rage is thine, 
To quit the worship of thy hne, 

To leave thy Warrior-God ? — 
iVith me is glory or disgrace, 
■Mine is the onset and the chase, 
embattied hosts before my face 

Are wither'd by a nod. 
Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat 
Deserved by many a dauntless feat, 
Among the heroes of thy line, 
Eric and fiery Thorarine ? — 
Thou wilt not. Only I can give 
The ^oys for which the valiant live, 
Victory and vengeance — only I 
Can give the joys for which they die, 
Th. immortal tilt— the banquet full, 
The brimming draught from foeman's 

skull. 
Mine art thou, witness this thy glove, 
The faithful pledge of vassal's love." 

XV. 

" Tempter," said Harold, firm of heart, 
" I charge thee, hence! whate'er thou art, 
1 do defy thee— and resist 
The kindling frenzy of my breast, 
Waked by thy words ; and of my mail, 
Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nor nail, 
Shall rest with thee — that youth release. 
And God, or Demon, part in peace." — 
" Eivir," the Shape replied, " is mine, 
Mark'd in the birth-hour with my sign, 
Think'st thou that priest with drops of 

spray 
Could wash that blood-red mark away ? 
Or that a borrow'd sex and name 
Can abrogate a Godhead's claim ? " 
Thrill' d this strange speech through 

Harold's brain. 
He clenclied his teeth in hi^l-" disdain, 
For not his new-born faith subdued 
Some tokens of his ancient mood. — 
" Now, by the hope so lately given 
Of better trust and purer heaven, 
I will assail thee, fiend ! " — Then rose 
His mace, and with a storm of blows 
The mortal and the Demon close. 

XVI. 
Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around, 
Dirken'd the sky and shook the ground 

But not the artillery of hell, 
The bickering lightning, nor the rock 
Of turrets to the earthquake's shock, 

Could Harold's courage quell. 
Sternly the Da«e his purpose kept 
And blows on blows resistless heap'd, 



Till quail'd that Demon Form, 
And — for bis power to hurt or kill 
Was bounded by a higher will — 

Evanish'd in the storm. 
Nor paused the Champion of the North, 
But raised and bore his Eivir forth, 
From that wild scene of fiendish strife, 
To light, to liberty, and life 1 

XVII. 
He placed her on a bank of moss, 

A silver runnel bubbled by. 
And new-born thoughts his soul engross, 
And tremors yet unknown across 

His stubborn sinews fly, 
The while with timid hard the dew 
Upon her brow and neck he threw, 
And mark'd how life wuh rosy hue 
On her pale cheek revived anew, 

And glimmer'd in her eye. 
Inly he said, " That silken tress, — 
What blindness mine that could not guess I 
Or how could page's rugged dress 

That bosom's pride belie ? 
O, dull of heart, through wild and wave 
In search of blood and death to rave, 

With such a partner nigh ! " 

XVIII. 

Then in amirror'd pool he peer'd. 
Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, 
The stains of recent conflict clear'd,— 

And thus the Champion proved, 
That he fears now who never fear'd, 

And loves who never loved. 
And Eivir — life is on her cheek, 
And yet she will not move or speak, 

Nor will her eyelid fully ope ; 
Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye. 
Through its long fringe, reserved and shy, 
Affection's opening dawn to spy ; 
And the deep blush, which bids its dye 
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fliy, 

Speaks shame^facedness and hope. 

XIX. 

But vainly seems the Dane to seek 
For terms his new-born love to speak, — 
For words, save those of wrath and wrong, j 
Till now were strangers to his tongue ; 
So, when he raised the blushing maid. 
In blunt and honest terms he said, 
('Twere well that maids, when lovers woo, 
Heard none more soft, were all as true,) 
" Eivir ! since thou for many a day 
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way. 
It is but meet that in the hne 
Of after-life I follow thine. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



337 



To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide, 
And we will grace his altar's side, 
A Christian knight and Christian bride; 
And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be 

said, 
That on the same morn he was christen'd 

and wed." 

CONCLUSION. 

And now, Ennui, what ails tKee, weary 

maid ? 
And why these listless looks of yawning 

sorrow? 



No need to turn the page, as if 'twere 
lead, 

Or fling aside the volume till to-mor- 
row. — 

Be cheer'd — 'tis ended — and I will not 
borrow. 

To try thy patience more, one anecdote 

From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro. 

Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath 
wrote 

A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add 
a note. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY 
OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. 



Imttaiions of i\% gimiint §aUa!>. 



THOMAS THE RHYMER. 



IN THREE PARTS. 



FIRST PART.— ANCIENT. 



Few personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Ercildoune, known by the appel" 
lation of The Rhymer. Uniting, or supposing to unite, in his person the powers of poetical 
composition and of vaticination, his memory, even after the lapse of five hundred years, is re- 
garded with veneration by his countrymen. To give anything like a certain history of this re- 
markable man would be indeed difficult ; but the curious may derive some satisfaction from the 
particulars here brought together. 

It is agreed on all hands, that the residence, and probably the birthplace, of this ancient bard 
was Ercildoune, a village situated upon the Leader, two miles above its junction with the Tweed. 
The i-uins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle. The uniform tradition 
bears, that his surname was Lermont, or Learmont ; and that the appellation of The R.^yi;ier 
wrs conferred on him in consequence of his poetical compositions. There remains, nevertheless, 
«ome doubt upon the subject. 

We are better able to ascertain the period at which Thomas ot Ercildoune lived, being the 
jatter end of the thirteenth century. I am inclined to place his death a little farther back than 
Mr. Pinkerton, who supposes that he was alive in \ zoo. —.{List of Scottish Poets.) 

It cannot be doubted that Thomas of Ercildoune was a remarkable and important person m 
his own time, since, very shortly after his death, we find him celebrated as a prophet and as a 
poet. Whether he himself made any pretensions to the first of these characters, or whether it 
was gratuitously conferred upon him by the credulity of posterity, it seems difficult to decide. 
If we may believe Mackenzie, Learmont only versified the prophecies delivered by Eliza, an in- 
ured nun of a convent at Haddington. But of this there seems not to be the most distant 
proof. On the contrary, all ancient authors, who quote the Rhymer's orophecies, uniformly 
suppose them to have been emitted by himself. 



338 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



The popular tale bears, that Thomas was carried of?, at an early age, to the Fairy Land* 
where he acquired all the knowledge which made him afterwards so famous. After seven years, 
residence, he was perm. tied to return to the earth, to enlighten and astcnish his countrymen by 
his prophetic powers-; still, however, remaining bound to return to his royal mistress, when she 
should intimate her pleasure. Accordingly, while Thomas was making merry with his fnends 
jn the Tower of Ercildoune, a person came runnmg in, and told, with mari<s of fear and astonish- 
ment, that a hart and hind had left the neighboring forest, and were, composedly and slowly, 
parading the street of the village. The prophet instantly arose, left his habitation, and followed 
the wonderful anmials to the forest, whence he was never seen to return. According to ti-.e 
popular belief, he still *' drees his weird " in Fairy Land, and is one day expected to revisit earth. 
In the mean while, his memory is held in the most profound respect. The Elden Tree, from 
beneath the shade of which he delivered his prophecies, now no longer exists; but the spot is 
marked by a large stone, called Eildon Tree Stone. A neighboring rivulet takes the name ot' 
the Bogle Burn (Goblin Brook)from the Rhymer's supernatural visitants. 

It seemed to the Editor unpardonable to dismiss a person so important in Border traditions 
as the Rhymer, without some further notice than a simple commentary upon the following 
ballad. It is given from a copy, obtained from a lady residing not far from Ercildoune, cor- 
rected and enlarged by one in Mrs. Brown's MSS. The former copy, however, as might be 
expected, is far from minute as to local description To this old tale the Editor has ventured 
to add a Second Part, consisting of a kind of cento, from the printed prophecies vulgarly 
ascribed to the Rhymer ; and a Third Part, entirely modern, founded upon the tradition of his 
having returned with the hart and the hind to the Land of Faery To make his peace with the 
more severe antiquaries, the Editor has prefixed to tlie Second Part some remarks on Lear- 
mont's prophecies. 



True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; * 

A ferlie t he spied wi' his ee ; 
And there he saw a ladye bright, 

Come riding down by the Eild Tree. 

Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, 
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne ; 

At ilka I tett of her horse's mane, 
Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 

True Thomas he ptilPd aff his cap, 
And lotited § low down to his knee, 

*' All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven ! 
For thy peer on earth I never did see."— 

" O no, O no, Thomas," she said, 
" That name does not belong to me ; 

I am but the Queen of fair Elfland, 
That am hither come to visit thee. -^ 

** Harp and carp, Thomas," she said ; 

" Harp and carp along wi' me ; 
And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 

Sure of your bodie I will be.'' — 

*' Betide me weal, betide me woe, 

That weird i| shall never daunton me."— 

Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips, 
All underneath the Eildon Tree. 

'' Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said ; 

" True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; 
And ye maun serve me seven years, 

Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.' 



* A spot afterwards inchulcd in the domain 
o{ Abbotsford. t Wonder. % Each. 

9 Bowed, II Destiny shall not alarm me. 



She mounted on her milk-white steed I 
She's ta'en true Thomas up behind ; 

And aye, whene'er her bridle rung^ 
Tiie steed flew swifter than the wind. 

O they rade on, and farther on , 

The steed gaed swifter than the wind \ 

Until they reach'd a desert wide, 
And Uving land was left behind 

"Light down, light down, now tm« 
Thomas, 
And lean your head upon my knee , 
i Abide and rest a little space, 
j And I will shew you ferlies TJ three. 

1 " O see ye not yon narrow road, 

j So thick beset with thorns and briers? 

I That is the path of righteousness, 

j Though after jt but few enquires. 

'• And see ye not that braid braid road, 
That lies across that lily leven ? 

That IS the path of wickedness, 

Though some call it the road to heaven. 

" And see not ye that bonny road. 
That winds about the fernie brae ? 

That is the road to fair Elfland, 

Where thou and I this night maun gae. 

" But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue. 

Whatever ye may hear or see ; 
For, if ye speak word in Elflyn land, 

Ye' 11 ne'er get back to your ain countrie." 



H Wotwlers. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



339 



O they rade on, and farther on, 

And they waded through rivers aboon 
the knee, 
And they saw neither sun nor moon, 

But they heard the roaring of the sea 

It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae 
stern hght. 
And they waded through red blude to the 
knee, 
For a' the blude that's shed on earth 

Rins through the springs (J* that countrie. 

Syne they came on to a garden green, 
And she pu'd an apple frae a tree * — 

" Take this for thy wages, true Thomas ; 
It will give thee the tongue that will never 
lie."— 



" My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas 
said ; 

" A gudely gift ye wad gie to me ! 
I neither dought to buy nor sell, 

At fair or tryst where 1 may be. 

'• 1 dought neither speak to prince or 
peer, 

Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." — 
" Now hold thy peace ! " the lady said, 

" For as I say, so must it be." — 

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
And a pair of shoes of velvet green; 

And till seven years were gane and past, 
True Thomas on earth was never 
seen. 



PART SECOND.— ALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES. 

The prophecies, ascribed to Thomas of Ercildoune, have been the principal means of securing 
to him remembrance ''amongst the sons of his people." The author of Sir Trisirem 
would long ago have joined, in the vale of oblivion, " Clerk of Tranent, who wrote the adventure 
of Schirv Gawaiti,'^ if, by good hap, the same current of ideas respecting antiquity, which causes 
Virgil to be regarded as a magician by the Lazaroni of Naples, had not exalted the bard of 
Ercildoune to the prophetic character. Perhaps, indeed, he himself affected it during his 
life. We know, at least, for certain, tiiat a belief m his supernatural knowledge was current 
soon after his death. His prophecies are alluded to by Barbour, by Win ton, and by Henry the 
Minstrel, or Blind Harry, as he is usually termed. None of these authors, however, give the 
words of any of the Rliymer's vaticinations, but merely narrate, historically, his having predicted 
the events of which they speak. The earliest of the prophecies ascribed to him, which is now 
extant, is quoted by Mr. Pinkerton from a MS. It is supposed to be a response from Thomas 
of Ercildoune to a question from the heroic Countess of March, renowned for the defence of the 
Castle of Dunbar against the English, and termed, in the familiar dialect of her time Black 
Ao^nes of Dunbar This prophecy is remarkable, in so far as it bears very little resemblance to 
any verses published in the printed copy of the Rhymer's supposed prophecies. 

Corspatrick (Comes Patrick) Earl of March, but more commonly taking his title from his 
castle of Dunbar, acted a noted part during the wars of Edward I in Scotland As Thomas of 
Ercildoune is said to have delivered to him his famous prophecy of King Alexander's death, 
the Editor has chosen to introduce him into the following ballad. All the prophetic verses are 
selected from Hart's publication, t 



When seven years were came and gane, 
The sun blink'd lair on pool and stream ; 

And Thomas lay on Huntlie Bank, 
Like one awaken'd from a dream. 



He heard the trampling of a steed, 
He saw the flash of armor flee. 

And he beheld a gallant knight 
Come riding down by the 
tree. 



Eildon- 



He was a stalwart knight, and strong * 
Of giant make he 'pear'd to be ; 

He stirr'd his horse, as he were wode, 
Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free. 

Says — " Well met, well met, true Thomas ! 

Some uncouth ferlies show to me." — 
Says — " Christ thee save, Corspatrick 

brave ! 
Thrice welcume, good Dunbar, to me ! 



* The traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of " 
the fatal Tree of Knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. Tiie repugnance 
of Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he plight find it convenient, lias a comic 
effect. 

t Prophecies supposed to have been delivered by True Thomas, Bede, Merlin. &c., published 
by Andro Hart, 1615. — [Edit.] 



340 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



••Light down, light down, Corspatrick 
brave I 

And I will show thee curses three, 
Shall gar fair Scotland greet and grane, 

And change the green to the black livery. 

" A storm shall roar this very hour, 
From Ross's hill to Solway sea," — 

** Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar, 

For the sun shines sweet on fauld and 
lee."— 

He put his hand on the Earlie's head ; 

He show'd him a rock beside the sea, 
Where a king lay stiff beneath his steed,* 

And steel-dight nobles wiped their ee. 

" The neist curse lights on Branxton hills ; 

By Flodden's high and heathery side, 
Shall wave a banner red as blude. 

And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. 

" A Scottish King shall come full 

The ruddy lion beareth he ; 
A feather'd arrow sharp, I ween, 

Shall make him wink and warre to see. 

" When he is bloody, and all to bledde. 
Thus to his men he still shall say — 

• For God's sake, turn ye back again, 
And give yon southern folk a fray ! 

Why should I lose, the right is mine ? 
My doom is not to die this day.' f 

"Yet turn ye to the eastern hand, 
And woe and wonder ye sail see ; 

How forty thousand spearmen stand, 
Where yon rank river meets the sea." 

"There shall the lion lose the gylte. 
And the libbards | bear it clean away ; 



At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt 
Much gentil bluid that day." 

'' Enough, enough, of curse and ban ; 

Some blessings show thou now to me, 
Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick 
said, 

" Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me I '*— « 

" The first of blessings 1 shall thee show, 
Is by a burn, that's call'd of bread ;§ 

Where Saxon men shall tine the bow. 
And find their arrows lack the head. 

' Beside that brigg, out ower that burn, 

Where the water bickereth bright and 
sheen, 
Shall many a fallen courser spurn, 

And knights shall die in battle keen. 
" Beside a headless cross of stone, 

The libbards there shall lose the gree : 
The raven shall come, the erne shall go, 

And drink the Saxon bluid sae free. 
The cross of stone they shall not know, 

So thick the corses there shall be." — 
" But tell me, now," said brave Dunbar, 

" True Thomas, tell now unto me. 
What man shall rule the isle Britain, 

Even from the north to the southerB 
sea ? " — 
" A French Queen shall bear the son,|| 

Shall rule all Britain to the sea ; 
He of the Bruce's blood shall come, 

As near as in the ninth degree. 
" The waters worship shall his race ; 

Likewise the waves of the farthest sea ; 
For they shall ride over ocean wide. 

With hempen bridles, and horse of tree." 



PART THIRD.— MODERN. 

Thomas the Rhymer was reiiowned among his contemporaries, as the author of the celebrated 
romance of Sir Tristrem. Of this once-admired poem only one copy is now known to exist, which 
is in the Advocates' Library. The Editor, in 1804, published a small edition of this curious work , 
which, if it does not revive the reputation of the bard of Ercildoune, is at least the earliest 
specimen of Scottish poetry hitherto published. Some account of this romance has already 
been given to the world in Mr. Ellis's Speciine^is of A ncient Poetry, vol. i. p. 165 ; lii. p. 410 ; 
a work to which our predecessors and our posterity are alike obliged ; the former, for the pre- 
servation of the best-selected examples of their poetical taste ; and the latter, for a history of 
the English language, which will only cease to be interesting with the existence of our mother- 
tongue, and all that fenius and learning have recorded in It. It is sufficient here to mention, 
that so great was the reputition cf the romance of Sir Tristrem, that few were thought capable 
ef recitnig it after the mav.r.er cf the author. 

• King Alexander III., k-.iled ty a fall from 1 baimer is a lion on a field gtdcs: the English 
biis horse near Kinghorn. banner then was the three leopards. 

t The uncertainty which long prevailed in § B(^r.7tock, or Breed Kurn. 

Scotland, concerning the fate of James IV., is II James VI., son cf Mary Queen <A Fra-fue 
well known. and Scotland. 

% Leopards of Plantagenet The Scottish 



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341 



The following attempt to commemorate the Rliymer's poetical fame, and the traditional 
account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, would have been placed 
with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its immediate 
connection with the first and second parts of the same story. 

When seven years more were come and ] But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, 

j The notes melodious swell ; 
1 Was none excell'd m Arthur's days, 
The knight of Lionelle. 



seven years more were com 
gone, 
Was war through Scotland spread. 
And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon ' 
His beacon blazing red. 

Then all by bonny Coldingknow f 
Pitch'd palliouns \ took their room, 

And crested helms, and spears a-rowe, 
Glanced gayiy through the broom 

The Leader, roiimg to the Tweed, 

Resounds the ensenzie ; § 
They roused the deer from Caddenhead, 

To distant Torwoodlee 

The feast was spread in Ercildoune, 
In Learmont's high and ancient hall : 

And there were knights of great renown, 
And ladies, laced in pal!. 

Nor lack'd they, while they sat at dme, 

The music nor the tale. 
Nor goblets of tiie blood-red wine, 

Nor mantling quaighs || of ale. 

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, 

When as the feast was done : 
(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, 

The elfin harp he won ) 

Hush'd were the throng, both limb and 
tongue, 

And harpers for envy pale ; 
And armed lords lean'd on their swords. 

And hearken'd to the tale. 

In numbers high, the witching tale 

The prophet pour'd along ; 
No after bard might e'er avail 

Those numbers to prolong. 

Yet fragments of the lofty strain 

Float down the tide of years, 
As, buoyant on the stormy main, 

A parted wreck appears. 

He sung King Arthur's Table Round : 

The Warrioi of the Lake ; 
ITow courteous Gawaine met the wound. 

And bled for ladies' sake. 



* Hills near Jedburgh. 
t A tower near Ercildoune. 
t Tents. 

§ Ensenzie— V72ir-cry, or gathering word. 
U Quaighs -~ Wooden cups, composed of 
staves hooped together. 



I 
For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, 

A venom'd wound he bore ; 
When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, 

Upon the Irish shore. 

No art the poison might withstand ; 
No medicine could be found, 
j Till lovely Isolde's lily hand 

Had probed the rankling wound. 

With gentle hand and soothing tongue 

She bore the leech's part , 
And, while she o'er liis sick-bed hung. 

He paid her with his heart. 

O fatal was the gift, I ween ! 

For, doom'd in evil tide, 
The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, 

His cowardly uncle's bride. 

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard, 

In fairy tissue wovj , 
Where lords, and knights, and ladies 
bright. 

In gay confusion strove. 

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, 
High rear'd its glittering head , 

And Avalon's enchanted vale 
In all its wonders spread. 

Brangwain was there, and Segramore, 
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye , 

Of that famed wizard's mighty lore, 
O who could sing but he ? 

Through many a maze the winning song 

In changeful passion led, 
Till bent at length the listening throng 

O'er Tristrem's dying bed. 

His ancient wounds their scars expand, 
With agony his heart is wrung • 

O where is Jsolde's lilye hand, 
And where her soothing tongue ? 

She comes ! she comes ! — like flash of flame 

Can lovers' footsteps fly : 
She comes ! she comes ! — she only came 

To see her Tristrem die. 

She saw him die ; her latest sigh 
j Join'd in a kiss his parting breatl^ 



342 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The gentlest pair that Britain bare, 
United are in death. 

There paused the harp : its lingering sound 

Died slowly on the ear ; 
The silent guests still bent around, 

For still they seem'd to hear. 

Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak : 
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh ; 

But half ashamed, the rugged cheek 
Did many a gauntlet dry. 

On Leader's stream and Learmont's tower. 

The mists of evening close ; 
In camp, in castle, or in bower, 

Each warrior sought repose. 

Lord Douglas, m his lofty tent, 

Dream' d o'er the woeful tale ; 
When footsteps light, across the bent. 

The warrior's ears assail. 

He starts, . he wakes ; — " What, Richard, 
ho ! 

Arise, my page, arise 1 
What venturous wight, at dead of night, 

Dare step where Douglas lies ? " — 

Then forth they rush'd : by Leader's tide, 

A selcouth * sight they see-^- 
A hart and hind pace side by side, 

As white as snow on Fairnahe. 

Beneath the moon, with gesture proud. 

They stately move and slow ; 
Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, 

Who marvel as they go. 

To Learmont's tower a message sped, 

As fast as page might run ; 
And Thomas started from his bed, 

And soon his clothes did on. 

First he woxe pale, and then woxe red ; 

Never a word he spake but three ; — 
" My sand is run ; my thread is spun ; 

This sign regardeth me." 



The elfin harp his neck around, 

In minstrel guise, he hung ; 
And on the wind, in doleful sound, 

Its dying accents rung. 

Then forth he went ; yet turn'd him oft 

To view his ancient hall : 
On the gray tower, in lustre soft, 

The autumn moonbeams fall. 

.A.nd Leader's waves, like silver sheen, 
Danced shimmering in the ray ; 
i In deepening mass, at distance seen, 
[ Broad Soltra's mountains lay. 

" Farewell, my fathers' ancient tower ! 

A long farewell," said he : 
" The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, 

Thou never more shalt be. 

" To Learmont's name no foot of earth 

Shall here again belong, 
And, on thy hospitable hearth, 

The hare shall leave lier young. 

" Adieu ! adieu ! " again he cried, 
AH as he turn'd him roun' — 

" Farewell to Leader's silver tide ! 
Farewell to Ercildoune!" 

The hart and hind approach'd the place, 

As lingering yet he stood ; 
And there, before Lord Douglas' face. 

With them he cross' d the flood. 



d 



Lord Douglas leap'd on his berry-brown 
steed, 

And spurr'd him the Leader o'er ; 
But, though he rode with lightning speed, 

He never saw them more. 

Some said to hill, and some to glen, 
Their wondrous course had been ; 

But ne'er in haunts of living men 
Again was Thomas seen. 



GLENFINLAS; OR, LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. f 

• 

The simple tradition, upon whicli the following stanzas arc founded, runs thus: While two 
Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary ^^M^ (a luit, built for the purpose oi 
hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish that 
they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two 
beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the 
hunters was seduced, by the siren who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut : the 

• Wondrous, 

t Coronach— \% the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged oi the claa. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



343 



other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's 
harp, some strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress 
vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been 
torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was fr(;m 
thence called the Glen of the Green Women. 

Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from 
Callender in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of Moray. 
This country, as well as the adjacent district cf Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly in- 
habited by the Macgregors. To the west of the Forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its 
romantic avenue, called the Trosachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in 
the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith i^asses Callender 
and tlie Castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The Pass of Lenny is immediately 
above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a 
forest, near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of alpine scenery. 
This ballad first appeared in the Tales of Wonder, by Lewis. 

For them the viewless forms of air obey, 
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair; 

They know what spirit brews tiie stormful day. 
And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare, 

To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare. — Collins. 



" O HONE a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! * 
The pride of Albin's line is o'er. 

And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree ; 
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! " — 

O, sprung from great Macgillianore, 
The chief that never fear'd a foe, 

How matchless was thy broad claymore, 
How deadly thine unerring bow 1 

Well can the Saxon widows tell,t 

Hew, on the Teith's resounding shore, 

The boldest Lowland warriors fell, 
As down from Lenny's pass you bore. 

But o'er his hills, in festal day. 

How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree,^ 
While youths and maids the light strath- 
spey 

So nimbly danced with Highland glee ! 

Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell, 

E'ert age forgot his tresses hoar ; 
But now the loud lament we swell, 

O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more ! 
From distant isles a chieftain came. 

The joys of Ronald's halls to find. 
And chase with him the dark-brown game, 

That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 
'Twas Moy ; whom in Columba's isle 

The Seer's prophetic spirit found,^ 
As; ^vith a minstrel's fire the while. 

He waked his harp's harmonious sound. 
FuH many a spell to him was known. 

Which wandering spirits shrink to hear ; 

* * hone a rie' — " Alas for the chief! " 

t The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is applied 
by the Highlanders to their Low-Country 
aeighbois. 



And many a -ay of potent tone, 
Was never meant for mortal ear. 

For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood, 
High converse with the dead they hold, 

And oft espy the fated shroud, 
That shall the future corpse enfold. 

O so it fell, that on a day, 

To rouse the red deer from their den, 
The Chiefs have ta'en their distant way, 

And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen. 

No vassals wait their sports to aid. 

To watch their safety, deck their board ; 

Their simple dress, the Highland plaid. 
Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. 

Three summer days, thro' brake and dell, 
Their whistling shafts successful flew ; 

And still, when dewy evening fell, 
The quarry to their hut they drew. 

In gray Glenfinlas' deepest nook 

The solitary cabin stood. 
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, 

Which murmurs through that lonely 
wood. 
Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, 

When three successive days had flown ; 
And summer mist in dewy balm 

Steep'd heathy bank and mossy stone. 
The moon, half-hid in silvery flake 

Afar her dubious radiance shed. 
Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes 

And resting on Benledi's head. 
Now in their hut, in socfal guise. 

Their sylvan fare the Chiefs enjoy; 
And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes. 

As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. ; 



344 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" What lack we here to crown our bliss, 
While thus the pulse of joy beats high ? 

What, but fair woman's yielding kiss, 
Her panting breath and melting eye ? 

" To chase the deer of yonder shades, 
This morning left their father's pile 

The fairest of our mountain maids, 
The daughters of the proud Glengyle. 

"Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart. 
And dropp'd the tear, and heaved the 
sigh : 

But vain the lover's wily art. 
Beneath a sister's watchful eye 

" But thou mayst teach that guardian fair, 
While far with Mary I am flown, 

Of other hearts to cease her care. 
And find it hard to guard her own. 

" Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see 

The level- Flora of Glengyle, 
Unmindful of her charge and me, 

'Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile, 

•' Or, if he choose a melting tale, 
All underneath th3 greenwood bough, 

Will good St. Gran's rule prevail, ^ 
Stern huntsman of the rigid brow! " — 

•• Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, 
No more on me shall rapturo rise, 

Responsive to the panting breath, 
Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. 

" E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe. 
Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, 

I bade my harp's wild wailings flow. 
On me the Seer's sad spirit came. 

" The last dread curse of angry heaven. 
With ghastly sights and sounds of woe, 

To dash each glimpse of joy was given — 
The gift, the future ill to know. 

" The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn, 
Sogayly part from Oban's bay, 

Wy eye beheld her dash'd and torn. 
Far on the rocky Colonsay. 

** Thy Fergus too — thy sister's son, 

Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's 
power, 

As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe, 
He left the skirts of huge Benmore. 

" Thou only saw'st their tartans * wave, 
As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, 



* Tartans— X\i& full Higliland dress, made 
of the checkered stuff so termed. 



Heard' st but the pibroch,! answering brare 
To many a target clanking round. 

" I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, 
I saw the wound his bosom bore, 

When on the serried Saxon spears 
He pour'd his clan's resistless roar. 

" And thou, who bidst me think of bliss, 
And bidst my heart awake to glee, 

And court, like thee, the wanton kiss — 
That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee f 

" I see the death-damps chill thv brow ; 

1 hear thy Warning Spirit cry; 
The corpse-lights dance — they're gone, and 
now. . . . 

No more is given to gifted e3''e !"— 

"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, 
" Sad prophet of the evil hour! 
Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, 
Because to-morrow's storm may lour I 

" Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe, 
Clangillian's Chieftain ne'er shall fear ; 

His blood shall bound at rapture's glow. 
Though doom'd to stain the Saxon 
spear. 

" E'en now, to meet me in yon dell 
My Mary's buskins brush the dew."' 

He spoke, nor bade the Chief farewell. 
But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew/. 

Within an hour return'd each hound ; 

In rush'd the rousers of the deer ; 
They howl'd in melancholy sound, 

Then closely couch'd beside the Seer. 

No Ronald yet, though midnight came ; 

And sad were Moy's proplietic dreams. 
As, bending o'er the dying flame. 

He fed tifie watch-fire's quivering gleams. 

Sudden the hounds erect their ears, 
And sudden cease their moaning howl ; 

Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears 
By shivering limbs and stifled growl. 

Untouch'd, the harp began to ring, 
As softly, slowly, oped the door ; 

And shook responsive every string. 
As light a footstep press'd the floor. 

And by the watch-fire's ghmmering light, 
Close by the minstrel's side was seen 

An huntress maid, in beauty bright, 
All dropping wet her robes of green. 



t Pibroch— 71 piece of martial music, adapted 

to the Highland bagpipe. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



3+5 



All dropping wet her garments seem ; 

Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare, 
As, bending o'er tlie dying gleam, 

She wrung the moisture from her hair. 

With maiden blush, she softly said, 
" O gentle huntsman,' hast thou seen, 

In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade, 
A lovely maid in vest of green ; 

" With her a Chief in Highland pride ; 

His shojldeis bear the hunter's bow, 
The mountain dirk adorns his side. 

Far on the wind his tartans flow ? " — 

" And who art thou ? and who are they ? " 
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied: 

" And why, beneath the moon's pale ray. 
Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side? " — 

*' Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, 
Blue, dark, and deep, round m?.ny ?.n 
isle. 

Our father's towers o'erhang her side, 
The castle of the bold Glengyle, 

" To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer, 

Our woodland course this morn we bore, 

And haply met, while wandering here. 
The son of great Macgillianore. 

•'* O aid me, then, to seek the pair, 
Whom, loitering m the woods, I lost } 

Alone, I dare not venture there. 

Where walks, they say, the shrieking 
ghost." — 

" Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there ; 

Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, 
Here will I pour my midnight prayer, 

Which still must rise when mortals 
sleep." — 
•* O first, for pity's gentle sake, 

Guide a lone wanderer on her way I 
For I must cross the haunted brake. 

And reach my father's towers ere day." — 
"First, three times tell each Ave-bead, 

And thrice a Pater-ncster say ; 
Then kiss with me the holy rede ; 

So shall we safely wend our way."— 
"O shame to knighthood, strange and 
foul! 

Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow. 
And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, 

Which best befits thy sullen vow. 
" Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire. 

Thy heart was froze to love and joy, 
When gayly rung thy raptured lyre 

To wanton Morna's melting eye." 



Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of fiame, 

And high his sable locks arose. 
And quick his color went and came, 

As fear and rage alternate rose. 
" And thou ! when by the bl^.zing oak 

I lay, to her r.nd love resign'd, 
Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke. 

Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind? 

" Not thin • a race of mortal bloody 
Nor old Glengyle's pretended line ; 

Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood — 
Thy sire, ths Monarch of the Mine." 

He mutter'd thrice St. Oran's rhyme, 

And thrice St. Fillan's powerful pray:r j^ 

Then turn'd him to the eastern clime, 
And sternly shook his coal-black hair. 

And, bending o'er the harp, he flung 

His wildest witch-notes on \\\i wind ; 
.And loud, and high, and strange, they rung, 
! As many a magic change they find. 

I Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form, 
I Till to the roof her stature grew : 
I Then, mingling witli the rising storm, 
I With one wild yell away she flew. 

I Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear ; 
The slender hut in fragments flew ; 
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair 
Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. 

Wild mingling with the howling gale. 
Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise ; 

High o'er the minstrel's head they sail. 
And die amid the northern skies. 

The voice of thunder shook the wood, 
As ceased the more than mortal yell ; 
{ And, spattering foul, a shower of blood 
Upon the hissing firebrands fell. 

j Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm ; 
I The fingers strain'd a half-drawn blade : 
j And last, the life-blood streaming warm, 
I Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. 

Oft o'er that head, in battling field, 
Stream'd the proud crest of high Ben- 
more ; 

Tha: arm the broad claymore could wield, 
Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. 

Woe to Moneira's sullen rills ! 

Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen ! 
There never son of Albin's hills 

Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen. 
E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet 

At noon shaU shun that sheltering ^ack^ 



3A^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet 
The wayward Ladies of the Glen. 

And we — behind the Chieftain's shield, 
No more shall we in safety dwell ; 

None leads the people to the field — 
And we the loud lament must swell. 

hone a rie' ! "hone a rie' 1 
The pride of Albin's line is o'er ! 

And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree ; 
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more \ 



Lewis's collectior. produced also whav 
Scott justly calls his 'first serious attompts in 
verse ; ' and of these the earliest appears to 
have been the Glenfinlas. Here the scene is 
laid in the most favorite district of his 
favorite Perthshire Highlands ; and the 
Gaelic tradition on which it is founded was 
far more likely to draw out the secret strength 
of his genius, as well as to arrest the feelings 
of his countrymen, than anj' subject with 
wliich the stores of German diablerie could 
have supplied him. — Life of Scott, vol. ii, 
p. 25- 



THE EVE OF ST. ]CHN, 



I 



Smaylho'me, or Smallholm Tower j the scene oi the following ballad, is situated on the northern 
boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called SandiKnow-Crags, the property 
of Hugh Scott* Esq., of Harden [Lord Pohvarth]. The tower is a high square building, sur- 
rounded by an outer wail, r.cw ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended on three 
sides by a precipice and morass, :s accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. 
The apartments, as is usual in a Border keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and 
communicate by a narrow stair ; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or 
pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron gate j the distance between 
them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smayl- 
ho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is sur- 
rounded, one, more eminent, is called the IVatchfold, and is said to have been the station of a 
beacon, in tlie times of war with England. Without th? tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brother- 
stone is a heath, in the neighborhood of Smaylho'me Tower. 

This ballad was first printed in Mr. Lewis's Tales of IVonder. It is here published with 
some additional illustrations, particularly an account of the battle of Ancram Moor ; which 
seemed proper in a work upon T?order antiquities. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon 
a well-known Irish tradition. The ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the scene of the 
Editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate tliem in a Border tale. 

He came not from where Ancram Moor ^ 



The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 

He spurr'd his courser on, 
Without stop or stay down the rocky way, 

That leads to Brotherstone. 

He went not with the bold Buccleuch, 

His banner broad to rear ; 
He went not 'gainst the English yew. 

To lift the Scottish spear." 

Yet his plate-jack * wa.s braced, and his hel- 
met was laced, 
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore : 
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel 
sperthe, 
Full ten pound weight and more. 

The Baron return'd in three days' space, 
And his looks were sad and sour ; 

And weary was his courser's pace, 
As he reach'd his rocky tower. 



• The plate-jack is coat-annor ; the vaunt- 
torace or wam-brace, armor for the body ; the 
sperthe, a battle-axe. 



Ran red with English blood ; 
Where the Douglas true, and the bold 
Buccleuch, 
'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. 

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, 

His acton pierced and tore, 
His axe and his dagger with blood im 
brued, — 

But it was not English gore. 

He lighted at the Chapeifage, 

He held him close and still ; 
And n? whistled twice for his little foot* 
page. 

His name was English Will. 

" Come thou hither, my little foot-page, 

Come hither to my knee ; 
Though thou art young and tender of age» 

I think thou art trueto me. 

" Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, 
And look thou tell me true I 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY 



347 



Sinc^ 1 from Smaylho'me tower have been, 
What did thy lady do ? "— 

•* My lady, each night, sought the lonely 
light. 
That burns on the wild Watchfold ; 
For, from height to height, the beacons 
bright 
Of the English foemen told, 

" The bittern clamor'd from the moss, 
The wmd blew loud and shrill ; 

Tet the craggy pathway she did cross 
To the en-y 'Beacon Hill. 

*' I watch'd her steps, and silent came 
Where she sat her on a stone ; — 

No watchman stood by the dreary flame, 
It burned all alone. 

* The second night I kept her in sight, 
Till to the fire she came. 

And, by Mary's might ! an Armed Knight, 
Stood by the lonely flame. 

*' And many a word that warlike lord 

Did speak to my lady there ; 
But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the 
blast, 

And I heard not what they were. 

" The third night there the sky was fair, 
And the mountain-blast was still. 

As again 1 watch'd the secret pair, 
On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 

•' And I heard her name the midnight hour> 

And name this holy eve ; 
And say, ' Come this night to thy lady's 
bower, 

Ask no bold Baron's leave. 

" ' He lifts his spear with the bold Buc- 
cleuch , 

His lady is all alone ; 
The door she'll undo, to her knight so true, 

On the eve A good St. John. — 

~* I cannot come ; I must not come : 

I dare not come to thee ; 
On the eve of St. John I must wander alone : 

In thy bower I may not be,' — 

* 'Now, out on thee, fainthearted knight ! 
Thou shouldst not say me nay ; 

For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, 
Is worth the whole summer's day. 

* • And ril chain the blood-hound, and the 

warder shall not sound. 
And rushes shall be strev/'d on the stair ; 



So, by the black -rood stone,* and by holy St. 
John, 
I conjure thee, my love, to be there ! " — 

" ' Though the blood-hound be mute, and 
the rush beneath my foot. 
And the warder his bugle- should not 
blow, 
Yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to 
the east. 
And my footstep he would know.' — 

" ' O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the 
east ! 
For to Dryburgh f the way he has 
ta'en ; 
And there to say mass, till three days do 
pass. 
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.' — 

" He turn'd him around, and gi-imly h3 
frown 'd ; 
Then he laugh'd right scornfully — 
' He who says the mass-rite for the soul of 
that knight, 
May as well say mass for me ■ 

'' ' At the lone midnight hour, when bad 
spirits have power. 
In thy chamber will I be.' 
With that he was gone, and my lady left 
alone. 
And no more did I see." 

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's 
brow, , 

From the dark to the blood-red high ; 
" Now, tell me the mien of the knigb thou 
hast seen. 
For, by Mary, he shall die! " — 

" His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's 
red light : 
His plume it was scarlet and blue ; 
On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash 
bound. 
And his crest was a branch of the 
yew." — 

" Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foc^- 
page, 
Loud dost thou lie to me ! 

* The black-rood of Melrose was a crucifix 
of black marble, and of superior sanctity. 

t Dryburgh Abbey stands on the banks of the 
Tweed. After its dissokition, it became the 
property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, 
and afterwards the seat of the Earls of Buchan^ 



348 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For that knight is cold, and low laid in the 
mould, 
All under the Eildon-tree." * — 

" Yet hear but my word, my nobie lord ! 

Fer I heard her name his name; 
And that lady bright she called the knight 

Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! " 

Xhe bold Baron's brow then changed, I 
trow, 
From high blood-red to pale— 
" Tlie grave is deep and dark — and the corpse 
is stiff and starlc — 
So I may not trust thy tale. 

*' Where fair Tweed flows round holy Mel- 
rose, 

And Eildon slopes to the plain, 
Full three niglits ago, by some secret foe, 

Tliat gay gallant was slain. 

" The varying light deceived thy sight, 
And the wild winds drown'd the name ; 

For the Dr)burgh bells ring, and the 
white monks do sing. 
For Sir Richard of Coklinglu.me ! " 

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the 
tower-gate, 
And he mounted the narrow stair, 
To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that 
on her wait, 
He found his lady fair. 

That lady sat in mournful mood ; 

Look'd over hill and vale; 
Over Tweed's iair flood, and Mertoun's 
wood, 

And all down Teviotdale. 

" Now hail, now hail, thy lady bright ! "— 

" Now hail, thou Baron true ! 
What news, what news, from Ancram 
fight ? 

What news from the bold Buccleuch ? " — 

■* The Ancram moor is red with gore, 

For many a Southron fell ; 
And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore. 

To watch our beacons well." — 

The lady blush"d red, but nothing she said : 
Nor added the Baron a word : 



* Eildon :s a high hill, terminating in three 
conical summits, immediately above the town 
of Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a 
mac^nificent monastery. Eildon-tree is said to 
be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered 
prophecies. 



Then she stepp'd down the stair to h£S 
chamber fair, 
And so did her moody lord. 

In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron 
toss'd and turn'd. 
And oft to himself he said, — 
" Tlie worms around him creep, and his 
bloody grave is deep. *' * '^ 
It cannot give up the dead ! " — 

It was near the ringing of matin-bell, 

The night was well-nigh done, 
When a heavy sleep on tliat Baron fell, 

On the eve of good St. Jo)m. 

The lady look'd through the chamber 
fair, 

By the light of a dying flame ; 
And she was aware of a knight stood ther« — 

Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! 

" Alas ! away ! away ! " she cried, 
For the holy Virgin's sake ! " — 

" Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side 
But, lady, he will not awake. 

'■' By Eildon-tree, for long nights there, 

In bloody grave have I lain ; 
The mass and the death-prayer are said for 
me. 

But, lady, they are said in vain. 

" By the Baron's brand,, near Tweed's fair 
strand, 
Most foully slain, I fell ; 
And my restless sprite on the beacon'* 
height, 
For a space is doom'd to dwell, 

" At our trysting-place, for a certain space, 

I must wander to and fro : 
But I had not had power to come to thy 
bower 

Hadst thou not conjured me so." 

Love master'd fear — her brow she cross'd; 

" How, Richard, hast thou sped ? 
And art thou saved, or art thou lost? "• 

The vision shook his head ! 



" Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; 

So bid thy lord believe : 
That Jawless love is guilt above, 

This awful sisjn receive." 



He laid his left palm on an oaken beam ; 

His right upon her hand ; 
The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, 
For it scorch'd like a fiery brand. 



i 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 349 



The sabie score, of fingers four, 
Remains on that board impress'd; 

And for evermore that lady wore 
-A covering on her wrist. ^ 

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, 
Ne'er looks upon the sun; 



There is a monk in Melrose tower 
He speaketh word to none. 

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day ,3 
That monk, who speaks to none — 

That nun was Smayjho'me's Lady Gray, 
That monk the bold Baron. 



CADYOW CASTLE. 

The ruins of Cadyow or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of 
Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about Uvo miles above its 
junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conclusion of the Civil Wars, during the 
reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted themselves with 
generous zeal, which occasioned their temporary obscurity, and very nearly their total ruin. 
The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and 
overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree.^ In the immediate vicinity 
of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently 
extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of 
these trees measure twenty-five feet and upwards, in circumference ; and the state of decay, in 
which they now appear, shows that they have witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole 
scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was 
long p'-eserved in this forest the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned 
their being extirpated, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk- 
white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors as 
having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture 
with the tame breed.* 

In detailing the death of the Regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following bal- 
lad, it would be injustice to my readers to use other words than those of Dr. Robertson, whose 
account of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting. 

" Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He 
had been condemned to death soon after the battle of i^angside, as we have already related, and 
owed his life to the Regent's clemenc3\ But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of 
the Regent's favorites, t who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, 
into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made 
a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, 9nd from that moment he vowed 
to be revenged of the Regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. 
His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded' the enterprise. The maxim of that age justified the 
most desiderate course he could take to obtain vengeance. He followed the "Regent for some 
time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blov/. He resolved at last to wait till his 
enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through he which was to pass in his way from Stirling to 
Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden gallery, + which had a window towards the street ; 
spread a feather-bed on the floor, to hinder the noise of his feet from being heard, hung up a 
black cloth behind him, that his shadow might not be observed from without, and, after all this 
preparation, calmly expected the Regent's approach, who had lodged, during the night in a 
house not far distant. Some indistinct information of the danger which threatened him had 
been conveyed to the Regent, and he paid so much regard to it that he resolved to return by 
the same gate through which he had entered, and to fetch a compass round the town. But, as 
lie crowd about the gate was great, and he himself unacquainted with fear, he proceeded directly 
'along the street; and the throng of people obliging him to move very slowly, gave the assassir 
time to take so true an aim, that he shot him, with a single bullet, through the lower part of his 
belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman who rode on his other side. His followers inst?.ntly 
endeavored to break into the house whence the blow had come ; but they found the door 

* They were formerly kept in the park of Drumlanrig, and are still to be seen at Chillingham 
Castle in Northumberland. 

t This was Sir James Bellenden, Lord Justice-Clerk, whose shameful and inhuman rapacity 
occasioned the catastrophe in the text. — Spottiswoode. 

X The house to which this projecting gallery was attached was the property of the Archbishop 
nf St. Andrews, a natural brother to the Duke of Chatelherault, and uncle to Bothwellhaugh. 
This, among many other circumstances, seems to evince the aid which Bothwellhaugh received 
from his clan iu effecting his purpose. 



350 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



strongly barricaded, and, before it could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted a fleet horse,* 
which stood ready for him at a back passa2;e, and was got far beyond their reach. The regent 
died the same night of hir, wound." — History of Scotland, book v. 

Bothwellhaugh rode straight to Hamilton, where he was received in triumph ; for the ashes 
of the houses in Clydesdale, which had been burned by Murray's army, w;ere yet smoking: 
and party prejudice, the habits of the age, and the enormity of the provocation, seemed to his 
kinsmen to justify the deed. After a short abode at Hamilton, this fierce and determined man 
left Scotland, and served in France, under the patronage of the family of Guise, to whom he 
.Tas doubtless- recommended by having avenged the cause of their niece, Queen Mary, upon her 
ingrateful brother. DeThou has recorded that an attempt was made to er=gage him to assassin- 
ate Caspar de Coligni, the famous Admiral of France, and the buckler of the Huguenot cause. 
But the character of Bothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no mercenary trader in blood, and 
rejected the offer with contempt and indignation. He had no authority, he said, from Scotland 
to commit murders in France ; he had avenged his own just quarrel, but he would neither for 
price nor prayer avenge that of another man. — T/uiap.ns, cap. 46. 

The regent's death happened 23rd January, 1569. It is ajiplauded or stigmatized, by con- 
temporary historians, according to their religious or party prejudices. The triumph of Black- 
wood is unbounded. He not only extols the pious feat of Bothwellhaugh, " who,'' he observes^ 
"satislied with a single ounce of lead, him whose sacriligious avarice had stripped the me- 
tropolitan church of St. Andrews of iis covering;'' but he ascribes it to immediate divine in- 
spiration, and the escape of Hamilton to littie less than the miraculous interference of the 
Deity. — Jreb, vol. ii. p. 263. With equal injustice, it was, by others, made t'ne ground of a 
general national rcf.ection ; for, when Mather urged Berney to assassinate Burleigh, and quoted 
the example cf Poltrot and Bothwelihau^jh, the oilier conspirator answered 'that nej'ther 
Poltrot nor Hambieton did attempt their entsrpryse \^■ithout some reason or consideration to lead 
them to it ; as the one, by hyre, and promise of preferment or rewarde ; tiie other, upon desper- 
ate mind of revenge, for a lyttle wrong done unto him, as the report goethe, according to the 
vyle trayterous disposysyon of the hoole natyon of the Scottes." — Murdin's State Papers, vol. 
I, p. 197. 

Addressed to the Right Honorable Lady Anne Hamilton. 



When princely Hamilton's abode 
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, 

The song went round, the goblet flow'd, 
And revel sped the laughing hours. 

Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, 
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, 

And echoed light the dancer's bound, 
As mirth and^ music cheer'd the hall 

But Cadyow's towers, in ruin laid, 
And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er, 

Thrill to the music of the shade, 
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 

Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame, 
You bid me tell a minstrel tale, 

And tune my harp, of Border frame, 
On the wild banks of Evandale. 

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride. 

From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn, 
To draw oblivion's pall aside 

And mark the long-forgotten urn. 
Then, noble maid ! at thy command, 

Again the crumbled halls shall rise 
Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand, 

The past returns — the present flies. 

* The gift of Lord John Hamilton, Com- 
"ttieiidator of Arbroath. 



Where, with the rock's wood-cover'd side, 
Were blended late the ruins green, 

Rise turrets in fantastic pride, 
And feudal banners flaunt between : 

Where the rude torrent's brawling course 
Was shagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe, 

The ashler buttress braves its force, 
And ramparts frown in battled row. 

'Tis night — the shade of keep and spire 
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream ; 

And on the wave the warder's fire 
Is checkering the moonlight beams. 

Fades slow their light ; the east is gray ; 

The weary warder leaves his tower ; 
Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay, 

And merry hunters quit the bower. 

The drawbridge falls — they hurry out — 
Clatters each plank and swinging chain, 

As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 

Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. 

First of his troop, the Chief rode on ; f 
His shouting merry-men throng behind; 

t The head of the family of Hamilton,.at 1 
this period, was James, Earl of Arran, Duke li 
of Chatelherault, in France, and first peer of • ' 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



352 



The steed of princely Hamilton 

Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 

From the thick copse the roebucks bound, 
The startled red-deer scuds the plain, 

For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound 
Has roused the mountain haunts again. 

Through the huge oaks of Evandale, 

Whos*^ limbs a thousand years have 
worn, 

What suilen roar comes down the gale, 
And drowns the hunter's pealing horn? 

Mightiest of all the beasts of chase, 

That roam in woody Caledon, 
Crashing the forest in his race. 

The Mountain Bull comes thundering on. 

Fierce, on the hunter's auiver'd band, 

He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, 
Spurns, with Jilack hoof and horn, the 
sand, 

And tosses high his mane of snow, 
Aim'd well, the Chieftain's lance has 
flown ; 

Struggling in blood the savage lies 5 
His roar is sunk in hollow groan — 

Sound, merry huntsmen ! sound the 
pryse! ^ 
'Tis noon — against the knotted oak 

The hunters rest the idle spear ; 
Curls through the trees the slender smoke, 

Where yeomen dight the woodland 
cheer. 
Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan, 

On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 
Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man 

That bore the name of Hamilton. 

"Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place. 
Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 

Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
Why share's lie not our hunter's fare ? " — 

Stern Claud replied,^ with darkening face, 

(Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he,) 
"At merry feast, or buxom chase, 

No more the warrior wilt thou see 
" Few suns have set since Woodhouselee^ 

Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets 
foam. 
When to his hearths, in social glee, 

The war-worn soldier turn'd him home. 

the Scottish realm. In 1569 he was appointed 
by Queen Mary her lieutenant-general in 
Scotland, under the singular title of her 
adopted father. 



" There, wan from her maternal throes. 
His Margaret, beautifid and mild. 

Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, 

And peaceful nursed her new-born child. 

" O change accursed ! past are those days ; 

False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
And, for tlie heart's domestic blaze, 

Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 

" What sheeted phantom wanders wild, 
Where mountain Eske through wood 
land flows. 

Her arms enfold a shadov.'y child — 
Oh ! is it she, the pallid rose ? 

" The wilder'd traveller sees her glide. 
And hears her feeble voice with awe — 

' Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride ! 
And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh I ' " 

He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
Burst mingling from tiie kindred band, 

And half arose the kindling Chief, 

And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 

But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock, 
Ricfes headlong with resistless speed, 

Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
Drives to the leap his jaded steed ; ^ 

Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, 

As one some vision'd sight that saw. 
Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair ?— 

'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh, 
From gory seile,* and reeling steed, 

Sprung tlie fierce horseman with a bonndi 
And, reeking from the recent deed, 

He dash'd his carbine on the ground. 

Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis sweet to hear 

In good greenwood the bugle blown, 
But sweeter to Revenge's ear, 

To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 
" Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trode, 

At dawning morn, o'er dale and down. 
But prouder base-born Murray rode 

Through old Linlithgow's crowded town 

" From the wild Border's humbled side,^ 
In haughty triumph marched he. 

While Knox relax' d his bigot pride, 
And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see. 

" But can stern Power, with all his vaunt. 
Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare. 

The settled heart of Vengeance daunt. 

Or change the purpose of Despair 1 



* Selle — saddle. A word used by Spencer, 
aad other ancient authors. 



352 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



" With hackbut bent,^ my secret stand, 
Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, 

And mark'd, where, minghng in his band, 
Troop'd Scottish spikes and EngUsh bows. 

" Dark Morton,* girt with many a spear, 
Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 

And clash'd tiieir broadswords in the rear 
The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan, 7 

"Glencairn and stout Parkhead^ were nigh, 
Obsequious at their Regent's rein, 

And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, 
That saw fair ]).Iary weep in vain.9 

** 'Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, 
Proud Murray's plumage lioated high; 

Scarce could his trampling chai-gcr move. 
So close the minions crowded nigh.^° 

»* From the raised vizor's shade, his ej^e. 
Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, 

And his steel truncheon, waved on high, 
Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. 

•* But yet his sadden'd brow confessed 
A passing sliade of doubt and awe ; 

Some fiend vvas whispering in his breast, 
' Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh I ' 

"The death shot parts — the charger 
springs- 
Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 

And Murray's plumy helmet rings — 
— Rings on the ground, to rise no more. 

" What joy the raptured youth can feel, 
To hear her love the loved one tell — 

Or he, who broaches on his steel 
The wolf, by whom his infant fell ! 



" But dearer to my injured eye 
To see m dust proud Murray roll ; 

And mine was ten times trebled joy, 
To hear him groan his felon soul. 

" My Margaret's spectre gUded near ; 

\Vith pride her bleeding victim saw ; 
And sliriek'd in his death-deafen 'd ear, 

' Remember injured Bothwellhaugh 1 ' 

" Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! 

Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree! t 
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!-- 

Murray is fall'n, and Scotland free ! " 

Vaults every warrior to his steed ; 

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 
" Murray is fall'n, and Scotland freed ! 

Covch, Arran ! couch thy spear of 
flame ! " 

But, see ! the minstrel vision fails — 

The glimmering spears are seen no 
more ; 

The shouts of war die on the gales. 
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 

For the loud bugle, pealing high, 

The blackbird whistles down the vale, 

And sunk in ivied ruins lie 

The banner'd towers of Evandale. 

For Chiefs,* intent on bloody deed. 

And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain, 

Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed. 
Or graceful guides the silken rein. 

And long may Peace and Plenty own 
The maids who list the minstrel's tale ; 

Nor e'er a ruder guest be known 
On the fair banks of Evandale I 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The imperfect state of this ballad, which was written several years ag;o, is not a circumstance 
effected for the purpose of giving it that peculiar interest which is often found to arise trom 
nigratilied curiosity. On the ct-ntrary, it was the Editor's intention to have coirpleted the 
ale, if he had found himself able to succeed to his own satisfaction. Yielding to the 
)pinion of persons, whose judgment, if not biased by the partiality of friendship, is entitled 
:o deference, he has preferred inserting these verses as a fragment, to his intention of entirely 
;uppressing them. 

The tradition upon which the tale is founded, regards a house upon the barony of Gilmerton, 
jcar Lasswade, in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally 



* Of this noted person, it is enongh to say, 
Jiat he was active in the murder of David 
f *»zio, and at least privy to that of Darnley. 



t An oak, half-sawn, with the motto through, 
is an ancient cognizance of the family of Ham- 
ilton. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



353 



named Burndale, from the follov/ing tragic adventure. The baron of Gilmerton belonged, of 
yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was 
seduced by the Abbot of Newbattle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the banks of the Sou.h'Esk, 
now a seat of the Marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and 
learned also tliat the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the connivance of the lady's 
nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of 
bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the 
stronger claims of natural affection. Choosing, therefore, a dark and wdndy night, when the 
objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns 
and other combustibles, whieh he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile 
of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates. 

The scene with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, ex- 
tracted from the life rf Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecute d teachers of the 
sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and his successor, James. This person was 
5'pposed by his followers, and, perhaps, really believed himself, to be possessed of supernatural 
gifts; for the wild scenes whieh they frequented, and the constant dangers which were incurred 
through their proscription, deepened upon their minds the eloom of superstition, so general in 
that age. 

About the same time he [Pedan] came to Andrew Normand's house, in the parish of Allo- 
way, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, ho halted a 
iittle, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered; when he lifted up his head, ho said, 
' They are in this house that I have not one vv'ord of salvation unto ; ' he halted a little again, 
saying, 'This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work." Then 
there was a woman went out, ill-looking upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a 
witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, what 
John Murhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to 
Galloway, he was at family worship, and giving some notes of the Scripture read, when a 
very ill-looking man came, and sat down within the door, at the back of the halian [partition 
of the cottage]: immediately he halted and said, 'There is some unhappy body just now come 
into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth! ' This person went out, and 
he insisted {yjG.x\i out), yet he sav,- him neither come in nor go out." — Th£ Life and Prophecies 
of Air. Alexander Peden., late Minister of ike Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway, part 
ii. § 26 

A friendly correspondent remarks, "that the incapacity of proceeding in the performance of 
a religious duty, when a contaminated person is present, is of nmch higher antiquity than the 
era of the Rev. Mr. Alexander Peden." — Vide Hygini Fabulos, cap. 26. ^' Medea Corinthe 
exul, Aihenas, ad yJLgeuin Pa7idiG'iis filiwjt deveitit in hospitiu;n, eique nupsit. 

" Pestea sacerdos Diance Mdean cxagitare ccepit, ziegiqtie itegahat sacra a caste facers 

fosse, eo quod in ea civ Hate esset mulier veuefica et sbclerata ; tvnc exidatur.^- 



The Pope he was saying the high, high 
mass, 
All on St. Peter's day, 
With the power to him given, by the saint 
in heaven. 
To wash men's sins away. 

The Pope he was sayihg the blessed mass, 

And the people Jcneel'd around, 
And from each man's' soul his sins did 
pass. 

As he kissed the holy ground. 

And all, among the crowded throng, 

Was still both limb and tongue. 
While through vaulted roof and aisles 
aloof. 

The holy accents riing. 

At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear, 

And falter' d in the sound — 
And, when he would the chalice rear, 

He dropp'd it to the ground. 



" The breath of one of evil deed 

Pollutes our sacred day ; 
He has no portion in our creed. 

No part in what I say. 

"A being, whom no blessed word 
To ghostly peace can bring ; 

A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd. 
Recoils each holy thing. 

" Up, up, unhappy ! haste, arise ! 

My adjuration fear! 
I charge thee not to stop my voice, 

Nor longer tarry here! " 

Amid them all a pilgrim kneel' d, 

In gown of sackcloth gray ; 
Far journeying from his native field. 

He lirst saw Rome that day. 

For forty days and nights so drear, 

I ween he had not spoke, 
Andj save with bread and water clear, 

His fast he ne'er had broke. 



354 



SCO TT 'S POE TIC A L IVOR KS. 



Amid the penitential flock, 

Seem'd none more bent to pray ; 

But, when the Holy Father spoke. 
He rose and went his way. 

Again unto his native land 

His weary course he drew, 
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, 

And Pentland's mountains blue. ■ 

His unblest feet his native seat, 

'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain ; 
Tnrough' vv'oods more fair no stream more 
sweet 

Rolls to the eastern main. 

And lords to meet the pilgrim came, 

And vassals bent the knee ; 
For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, 

Was none mor^famed than he. 

And boldly for his country, still, 

In battle he had stood. 
Ay, even when on the banks of Till 

Her noblest pour'd their blood. 

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet I 
By Eske's fair streams that run, 

O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep, 
Impervious to the sun. 

There the rapt poet's step may rove, 

And yield the muse the day ; 
There Beauty, led by timid Love, 

May shun the tell-tale ray ; 

From that fair dome, where suit is paid 

By blast of bugle free,^ 
To Auchendinny's hazel glade,^ 

And haunted Woodhouselee. 
Who knows not Melville's beechy grovi5,s 

And'Roslin's rocky glen,'* 
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,5 

And classic Hawthornden ? ^ 

Yet never a path, from day to day. 

The pilgrim's footsteps range. 
Save but the solitary way 

To Burndale's ruin'd grange. 

A woful place was that, I ween. 

As sorrow could desire ; 
For nodding to the fall was each crumbling 
wall, 

And the roof was scathed with fire. 
It fell upon a summer's eve, 

While, on Carnethy's head, 
The last faint gleams of the sun!s low 
beams 

Had streak'd the gray with red \ 



And the convent bell did vespers tell, 

Newbattle's oaks among. 
And mingled with the solemn knell 

Our Ladye's evening song; 

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell. 

Came slowly down the wind, 
And on the pilgrim's ear tiiey fell, 

As his wonted path he did find. 

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was, 

Nor ever raised his eye, 
Until he came to that dreary place, 

Which did* all in ruins lie. 

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire, 

With many a bitter groan — 
And there was" aware of a Gray Friar, 

Resting him' on a stone. 

" Now, Christ thee save ! " said the Gray 
Brother ; 

" Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." 
But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze. 

Nor answer again made he. 

" O come ye from east, or come ye from 
west, 
Or bring reliques from over the sea ; 
Or come ye from the shrine of James tlie 
divine. 
Or St. John of Beverley ? " 

" I come not from the shrine of St. James 
the divine. 
Nor bring reliques from over the sea ; 
I bring but a curse from our father, the 
Pope, 
Which forever will cling to me." — 

" Now, woful pilgrim, say not so ! 

But kneel thee down to me, 
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin. 

That absolved thou mayst be." — 

" And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, 

That I should shrive to thee, 
When He, to whom are given the keys o! 
earth and heaven, 

Has no power to pardon me ? " — • 

" O I am sent from a distant clime, 

Five thousand miles av/ay, 
And all to absolve a foul, foul crime. 

Done here 'twixt night and day." 
Tho pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand. 

And tluis began his saye — 
When on his neck an ice-cold hand 

Did that Gray Brother laye. 



BALLADS, TRANSLATED, OR IMITA- 
TED, FROM THE GERMAN, &c. 



WILLIAM AND HELEN. 

1796. 

IMITATED FROM THE " LENORE " OF BURGER. 



From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 

And eyed the dawning red : 
" Alas, my love, thou tarriest long ! 

O art thou false or dead ? " 

II. 

With gallant Fred'rick's princely power 

He sought the bold Crusade ; 
But not a word from Judah's wars 

Told Helen how he sped. 
III. 
With Paynim and with Saracen 

At length a truce was made, 
And ev'ry knight return'd to dry 

The tears his love had shed. 
IV. 
Our gallant host was homeward bound 

With many a song of joy ; 
Green waved the laurel in each plume, 

The badge of victory. 
V. 
And old and young, and sire and son, 

To meet them crowd the way. 
With shouts, and mirth, and melody, 

The debt of love to pay. 

VI. 

Full many a maid her true-love met, 
And sobb'd in his embrace. 

And flutt'ring joy in tears and smiles 
Array'd full many a face. 

VII. 

Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad ; 

She sought the host n vain ; 
For none could tell her WiUiam's fate, 

If faithless, or if slain. 



The martial band is past and gone ; 

She rends her raven hair, 
And in distraction's bitter mood 

She weeps with wild despair. 



" O rise, my child," her mother said, 
" Nor sorrow thus in vain ; 

A perjured lover's fleeting heart 
No tears recall aeain." — 



" O mother, what is gone, is gone. 

What's lost forever lorn : 
Death, death alone can comfort me ; 

O had 1 ne'er been born ! 

XI 

" O break, my heart, — O break at once ! 

Drink my life-blood, Despair ! 
N ) joy remains on earth for me, 

For me in heaven no share," — 



" enter not in judgment. Lord ! " 
The pious mother prays ; 

" Impute not guilt to thy frail child ! 
She knows not what she says. 

XIII. 

" O say thy Pater-noster, child ! 

O turn to God and grace ! 
His will, that turn'd thy bliss to bale. 

Can change thy bale to bliss." — 

XIV. 

" O mother, mother, what is bliss ? 
O mother, what is bale ? 



I My William's love was heaven on earlii, 



Without it earth is hell. 



Izii) 



356 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



* Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, 

Since my loved William's slain? 
I only pray'd for William's sake, 
And all my prayers were vain."— 

XVI. 

*'0 take the sacrament, my child, 
And check tliese tears that flow ; 

By resignation's humble prayer, 
O hailovv'd be thy woe I " — 

XVII 

* No sacrament can cjuench this fire, 

Or slake this scorching pain ; 
No sacrament can bid the dead 
Arise and live again. 

XVIII. 

*' O break, my heart,— O break at once! 

Be thou my god, Despair ! 
Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me. 

And vain each fruitless prayer." — 



" O enter not in judgment, Lord, 

With thy frail child of clay ! 
She knows not wha.t her tongue has spoke 

Impute it not, I pray ! 



*' Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, 

And turn to God and grace , 
Well can devotion's heavenly glow. 

Convert thy bah to bliss.'' — 

XXI. 

*'0 m-othei, mother, what is bhss? 

O mother, what is bale ? 
Without my William what were heaven, 

Oi with him what were hell ? " — 

XXII. 

Wild she arraigns the eternal doom, 

Upbraids each sacred power. 
Till, spent, she sought her silent room, 

All in the lonely tower. 
XXIII. 

She beat her breast, she wrung her hands. 

Till sun and day were o'er, 
And through the glimmering lattice shone 

The twinkli!>g of the star. 

XXIV. 

Tlieii, crasli ! the heavy drawbridge fell 
Tliat o'er the moat was hung ; 

And, clatter ! ..after '. on its boards 
The hoof of courser rung. 



The clank of echoing steel was heard, 

As off the rider bounded ; 
And slov.'ly on the winf' ig stair 

A heavy footstep sounded. 

XXVI. 

And hark ! and hark ! a knock — Tap ! 
tap! 

A rusthng stifled noise ;— 
Door-latch and tinkling staples ring ; — 

At length a whispering voice. 

XXVII. 

" Av>?ake, awake, arise, my love ! 

How, Helen, dost thou fare .■" 
Wak'st thoLi, or sleep'st i laugh'st thou, or 
v/eep"st ? 

Hast thought on me, my fair ? "— 

XXVIII. 

" My love ! my love !— so late by night ! — 

I waked, I wept for thee : 
Much have 1 borne since dawn of morn ; 

Where, William, could'st thou be ! " — 



"We saddle late— from Hungary 
I rode since darkness fell ; 

And to its bourne we both return 
Before the matin-bell." 



" O rest this night within my arms, 

And warm thee in their fold! 
Chill howls through hawthorn bush the 
wind : — 

My love is deadly cold "— 

XXXI 

'■'• Let the wind howl through hawthorn 
bush! 

This night we must away ; 
The steed is wight, the spur is bright ; 

I cannot stay till day. 

XXXII. 

" Busk, busk, and boune ! * Thou mount'st 
behind 

Upon my black barb steed . 
O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles, 

We haste to bridal bed."— 

XXXIIl. 

" To-night — to-night a hundred miles ! — 
O dearest William, stay ! 



» Busk—in dress. Boune — to prepare one'* 
self for a journey. 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN 



357 



The bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal 
hour ! 
O wait, my love, till day ! " — 

XXXIV. 

" Look here, look here — the moon shmes 
clear — 

Full fast I ween wa ride ; 
Mount and away ! for ere the day 

We reach our bridal bed. 

XXXV, 

* The black barb snorts, the bridle rings ; 

Haste, busk,, and boune, and seat thee ! 
The feast is made, the chamber spread, 
The bndai guests await thee." — 

XXXVI. 

Strong love prevail'd ; She busks, she 
bounes, 
She mounts the barb behind, 
And round her darling William's waist 
Her liiy arms she twined, 
xxxvii 
And, hurry ! hurry 1 ofi' they rode. 

As fast as fast might be ; 
Spurn'd from the courser's thundering 
heels 
The flashing pebbles flee, 
xxxviii. 
\nd on the right, and on the left, 

Ere they could snatch a view. 
Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain. 
And cot, and castle, flew. 

xxxix. 

* Sit tasc — dost fear ? — The moon shines 

clear - 
Fleet goes my barb — keep hold ! 
Fear'st thou ? " — " O no ! " she faintly said ; 
" But why so stern and cold ? 

XL. 

•' What yonder rings ? what yonder sings ? 

Why shrieks the owlet gray ? " 
•* 'Tis deatii-bells' clang, 'tis funeral song, 

The body to the clay. 

XLI. 

* With song and clang, at morrow's 

dawn, 
Ye may inter the dead : 
To-night I ride with my young bride, 
To deck our bridal bed. 

XLII. 

"Come with thy choir, thou coftln'd 
guest, 
To swell our nuptial song ■ 



Come priest, to blass - ur inainage feast! 
Come all, come ail .Kwig i "— 

.XH!1 

Ceased clang and song , down sunk the 
bier ; 

The shrouded corpse arose • 
And, hurry ! hurry 1 all the train 

The thundering steed pursues. 

XLIV. 

And, forward I forward ! on they go ; 

High snorts the straining steed ; 
Thick pants the rider's laboring breath, 

As headlong on they speed. 

XLV. 

'• William, why this savage haste? 

And where thy bridal bed .? " — 
" 'Tis distant far, low, damp, and chill, 

And narrow, trustless maid." — 



"No room for 1112.''" — " J^nough for 
both ;— 
Speed, speed, my barb, thy course ! " 
O'er thundering bridge, through boiling 
surge, 
He drove the furious horse. 

XLVII. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode,* 
Splash I splash ! along the sea ; 

The scourge is wight, the spur is bright, 
The flashing pebbles flee. 

XLVIII. 

Fled past on right and left how fast 

Each forest, grove, and bower ! 
On right and left fled past how fast 

Each city, town, and tower ! 

* In the preface to the edition of " William 
and Helen," published anonymously in 1796 
Sir Walter Scott says : — " The first two Unas 
of the forty-seventh stanza, descriptive of the 
speed of the lovers, may perhaps bring to the 
recollection of many a passage extremely simi- 
lar in a translation of "Leonora," which first 
appeared in the Monthly Magazi^ie. In jus- 
tice to himself, the translator thinks it his duty 
to acknowledge that his curiosity was first 
attracted to this truly romantic story by a gen- 
tleman, who having heard " Leonora " once 
read in manuscript, could only recollect the 
general outlines, and a part of a couplet which, 
from the singularity 01 its structure and fre- 
quent recurrence, had remained impressed 
upon his memory. If, from despair of render- 
ing the passage so happil)', the property of 
another has been invaded, the translator makes 
the only atonement now in his power by re- 
storing it thus pubhcly to the rightful owner. 



35^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XLIX. 

** Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines 
clear, 

Dost fear to ride with me ? — • 

Hurrah ! luirrah ! the dead can ride ! " 

" O William, let them be !— 

L. 

** See there, see there ! What yonder 
swings 

And creaks 'mid whistling rain ? " — 
" Gibbet and steel, th' accursed wheel ; 

A murderer in his chain. — ' 



*< Hollo ! thou felon, follow here : 

To bridal bed we ride ; 
And thou shalt prance a fetter dance 

Before me and my bride."' — 



And, hurry ! hurry ! clash, clash, clash 1 
The wasted form descends ; 

And fleet as wind through hazel bush 
The wild career attends. 



Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode. 
Splash ! splash i along the sea ; 

The scourge is red, tlie spur drops blood, 
The flashing pebbles flee. 



How fled what moonshine faintly show'd I 
How fled what darkness hid ! 

How fled the earth beneat.i their feet. 
The heaven above then- head ! 



" Dost fear ? dost fear .? The mccn shines 
clear. 

And well the dead can ride ; 
Does faithful Helen fear for them ? " — 

'' O leave in peace the dead ! " — 

LVI. 

" Barb ! Barb : mcthinks I hear the cock ; 

The sand will soon be run : 
Barb ! Barb ! I smell the morning air ; 

The race is wellnigh done." — 

LVI I. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along tlie land they rode ; 

Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 

The flashing pebbles flee. 



LVIll. 

" Hurrah ! hurrah , well ride the dead ; 

The bride, the bride is come ; 
And soon we reach the bridal bed. 

For, Helen, here's my home."— 

LIX. 

Reluctant on its rusty hinge 

Revolved an iron cloor. 
And by the pale m.oon's setting beam 

Were seen a church and-tower. 

LX. 

With many a shriek and cry whiz round 
The birds of midnight, scared ; 

And n ling like autumnal leaves 
Unhallowed ghosts were heard. 



O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale 
He spurr'd the fiery horse. 

Till sudden at an open grave 

He check' d the wondrous course. 

LXII. 

The falling gauntlet quits the rein, 
Down drops the casque of steel, 

The cuirass leaves his shrinking " 
The spur his gory heel. 



side. 



The eyes desert the naked skull. 
The mould'ring flesh the bone, 

Till Helen's lily arms entwine 
A ghastly skeleton. 



The furious barb snoi-ts fire and foam, 
And, with a fearful bound, 

Dissolves at once in empty air. 
And leaves her on the ground. 



Half seen by fits, by fits half heard, 

Pale spectres flit along. 
Wheel round the maid in dismal dance, 

And howl the funeral song : 



" E'en when the heart's with anguish cleft. 

Revere the doom of Heaven. 
Her soul is from her body reft ; 

Her spirit be forgiven I " 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



359 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN* 

[1796.] 

This is a translation, or rather and imitation, of tlie Wilde Jdger of the German poet Burger. 
The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgvave, or keeper of a roya! 
forest, named Falkenburg. was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise^ 
so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on tiie, 
Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most iin-. 
heard-of oi^pression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassalage. When this second 
Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth 
sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived ilicy 
still heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds ; and the well known cheer of the deceased hunter, 
the sounds of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, 'the pack, nr.d 
the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated ; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. 
Once, as a benighted Chasseur lieard this infernal chase pass'bylnm, at the sound of the halloo, 
with which the Soectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying " GiUck 
zti Falkenburg; ! " [Good sport to ye, Falkenburg ! ] " Dost thou wish me good sport ? " answered 
a hoarse voice ; "thou shait slrire the game ; " and there v/as thrown at him what seemed to be 
a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring Chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and 
never perfectly recovered the jiersonal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told 
with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany. 

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aeriel hunter, who infested the forest of 
Fontainebleau. 



The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, 
To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! 

His fiery courser snuffs the morn, 

And thronging serfs their lord pursue. 

The eager pack, from couples freed, 

Dash through the brush, the brier, the 
bralce ; 
While answering hound, and horn, and 
steed, 
The mountain echoes startling wake 

The beams of God's own hallow'd day 
Had painted yonder spire with gold, 

And, calling sinful man to pray, 

Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd : 

But still the V/ildgrave onward rides ; 

Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again 1 
When spurring from opposing sides. 

Two Stranger Horsemen join the trnin. 

Who was each Stranger, left and right, 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 

The right-hand steed was silver white, 
The left, the swarthy hue of hell. 

The right-hand Horseman young and fair, 
His smile was like the morn of May 

The left, from eye of tawny glare, 
Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. 

He waved his huntsman's cap on high, 
Cried, " Welcome, welcome, noble lord ! 



What sport can earth, or sea, or sky. 
To match the princely chase, afford ? " 

" Cease tliy loud bugle's clanging knell," 
Cried tlie fair youth, with silver voice ; 

" And for devotion's choral swell 

" Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise. 

" To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear, 
Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; 

To-day the Warning Spirit hear. 

To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain."- 

" Away, and sweep the glades along ! " 
The Sable Hunter hoarse replies ; 

" To muttering monks leave matin-songj 
And bells, and books, and mysteries." 

The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, 
And, launching forward with a bound, 

" Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, 
Would leave the jovial horn and hound 

" Hence, if our manly sport offend ! 

With pious fools go chant and pray : — 
Well hast thou spoke, my daik-brown'd 
friend ; 

Halloo, halloo ! and, hark away ! " 

The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light, 
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill ; 

And on the left and on the right, 

Each stranger Horseman follow'd still. 



* Published (1796) with " William and Helen, entitled " The Chase." 



36o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Up springs, fvoni yonder tangled thorn, 
A ^tag more white than mountain snow ; 

And loader rung the VVildgrave's horn, 
" Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! " 

A heedless wretch has cross'd the way ; 

He gasps the thundering hoofs below \ — 
But, live who can, or die who ma/. 

Still, " Forward, forward i " on they go. 

See, where yon simple fences meet, 

A field with Autumn's blessings crown'd; 

See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, 
A husbandman with toil embrown'd: 

*' O mercy, mercy, noble lord ! 

Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, 
**Earn'd by the sweat these brows have 
pour'd, 

in scorching hour of fierce July." — 

Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, 
The left still cheering to the prey ; 

The impetuous Earl no warning heeds, 
But furious holds the onward way, 

" Away, thou hound ! so basely born. 

Or dread the scourge's echoing blew ! " — 

Then loudly rung his bugle horn, 
" Hark forward, forward, holla, ho 1 

So said, so done : — A single bound 
Clears the poor laborer's humble pale , 

Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, 
Like dark December's stormy gale. 

And man and horse, and hound and horn 

Destructive sweep the field along ; 
While, ]oymg O'er the wasted corn, 
Fell Famme marks the maddening 
throng. 
i';ain uproused, the timorous prey 

Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill ; 
ilard run, he feels his strength decay, 
And trusts for life his simple skilL 

•Too dangerous solitude appear'd ; 

He seeks the shelter of the crowd ; 
Ai-iiid the flock's domestic herd 

His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 

O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill. 
His track the steady blood-hoimds trace ; 

O'er moss and moor, unwearied still. 
The furious Earl pursues the chase. 

Full lowly did the herdsman fall ;— 
" O spare, thou noble Baron, spare 

These herds, a widow's little all ; 
These flocks, an orphan's fleecy 
care!" — 



Earnest the nght-hand Stranger pleads, 
The left still cheering to the prey ; 

The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds. 
But furious keeps the onward way. 

" Unmanner'd dog ! To stop my sport, 
Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, 

Though human spirits, of thy sort, 
Were tenants of these carrion kine ! " 

Again he winds his bugle-horn, 

" Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 

And through the herd, m ruthless scorn, 
He cheers his furious hounds to go. 

|n heaps the tlirottled victims fall ; 

Down sinks their mangled herdsman 
near ; 
The murderous cries the stag appal, — 

Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. 

With blood besmear'd, and white v/ith 
foam, 

While big the tears of anguish pour, 
He seeks, amid the forest's gloom. 

The humble hermit's hallow'd bower. 

But man and horse, and horn and hound. 

Fast rattling on his traces go , 
The sacred chapel rung around 

With, '• Hark away i and, holla, ho \ " 

All mild, amid the rout profane, 
Thj holy hermit pour'd his prayer ; 

" Forbear v/ith blood God's house to s 
Revere his altar, and forbear 1 

" The meanest brute has rights to plead. 
Which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride, 

Draw vengeance on the ruthless head : — ■ 
Be warn'd at length, and turn aside." 

Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads ; 

The Black, v/iid whooping, pomts the 
prey :— 
Alas I the Earl no warning heeds, 

But frantic keeps tiie forward way. 

" Holy or not, or right or wrong, 
Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn ; 

Not sainted martyrs' sacred song. 

Not God himself, shall make me turh ! " 

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 
" Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 

But off, on whirlwind's pinion borne ; 
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. 

And horse and man, and horn and hound 
And clamor of the chase, was gone ; 

For hoofs, and howls, and bugle-sound. 
A deadly silence rcign'd alone. 



BALLADS FEOM THE GERMAN: 



36r 



Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ; 

He bUovc in vain to wake his horn, 
In vani to call ; for not a sound 

Could from his anxious lips be borne. 

He listens for his trusty hounds ; 

No distant baying reach'd his ears : 
His courser, rooted to tiie ground, 

The quickening spur unmindful bears. 

Still dark and darker frown the shades, 
Dark as the darkness of the grave ; 

And not a sound the still invades, 
Save what a distant torrent gave. 

Hi,i.;h o'er the sinner's humbled head 
At length the solemn silence broke ; 

And, from a cloud of swarthy red, 
The awful voice of thunder spoke. 

*' Oppressor of creation fair ! 

Apostate Spirits' harden'd tool ! . 
Scorner of God ! Scourge of the poor I 

The measure of thy cup is full. 

•" Be chased for ever through the wood ; 

For ever roam the affrighted wild ; 
And let thy fate instruct the proud, 

God's meanest creature is his child." 

*Twas hush'd : — One flash, of sombre glare, 
With y-ellow tinged the forests brown \ 

Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, 
And horror chill'd each nerve and bone. 

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill ; 



om poura tne sweat 
A rising wind began 



to sing 



And louder, louder, louder still, 

Brought storm and tempest on its wing- 
Earth heard the call ;— her entrails rend ^ 

From yawning rifts, with many a yell, 
Mix'd with sulphureous flames ascend 

The misbegotten dogs of helL 

What ghastly Huntsman next arose, 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 

His eye like m.idnight lightning glows, 
His steed the swarthy hue of hell. 

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, 
W^ith many a shriek of helpless woe ; 

Behind him hound, and horse, and horn, 
And, " Hark away, and holla, ho ! " 

With wild despair's reverted eye, 

Close, close behind he marks the throng^ 

With bloody fangs and eager cry ; 
In frantic fear he scours along. — 

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase, 
Till time itself shall have an end ; 

By day, they scour earth's cavern'd space, 
At midnight's witching hour, ascend 

This is the horn, and hound, and horse, 
That oft the lated peasant hears ; 

Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross, 
When the wild din invades his ears. 

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear 
For human pride, for human woe, 

When, at his midnight mass he hears 
The infernal cry of, " Holla, ho I " 



THE FIRE-KING. 

*'The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were upon \\\\x\..^''— Eastern Tale. 

tiSoi.] 

This ballad was written at the request of Mr. Lewis, to be inserted in his Tales of Wonder fi 
Tt is the third in a series of four ballads, on the subject of Elementary Spirits. The story is, 
however, partly historical ; for it is recorded, that during the struggles of the Latin kingdom of 
Jerusalem, a Knight-Templar, called Saint Alban, deserted to the Saracens, and^ defeated the 
Christians in many combat's, till he was finally routed and slain, in a conflict with Kmg Baldwin 
under the walls of Jerusalem. 



Bold knights and fair dames, to my harp 

give an ear, 
Of love, and of war, and of wonder to hear, 
And you liaply may sigh, in the midst of 

your glee, 
At the tale of Count Albert, and fair 

Rosalie. 



sec you that castle, so strong and so 

high .? 
And see you that lady, the tear in her eye ? 
And see you that palmer, from Palestine's 

land. 
The shell on his hat, and the staff in his 

hand ?— 



Published in iSox. 



362 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



* Now palmer, gray palmer, O tell unto me, 
What news bring you home from the Holy 

Countrie ? 
And how goes the warfare by Galilee's 

strand ? 
And how fare our nobles, the flower of the 

land ? "— 

*" O well goes the warfare by Galilee's 
wave, 

For Gilead, and Nablous, and Ramah we 
have; 

And well fare our nobles by Mount Leba- 
non, 

For the Heathen have lost, and the Chris- 
tians have won." 

A fair -chain of gold 'mid her ringlets there 

hung ; 
O'er the palmer's gray locks the fair chain 

has she flung : 
" O palmer, gray palmer, this chain be thy 

fee, 
For the news thou hast brought from the 

Holy Countrie. 

" And, palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's 
wave, 

O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and 
brave ? 

Wlien the Crescent went back, and the Red- 
cross rush'd on, 

O saw ye him foremost on Mount Leba- 
non ? " — 

" lady, fair lady, the tree green it 

grows ; 
O lady, fair lady, the stream pure it flows ; 
Your castle stands strong, and your hopes 

soar on liigh ; 
But, lady, fair lady, all. blossoms to die. 

* The green boughs they wither, the thun- 

derbolt falls. 

It leaves of your castle but levin-scorch'd 
walls ; 

The pure stream runs muddy ; the gay hope 
is gone ; 

Count Albert is prisoner on Mount Leba- 
non." 

O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at her 

speed ; 
And slie's ta'en a sword, should be sharp at 

her need ; 
And she has ta'en shipping for Palestine's 

land, 
To ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie's 

hand. 



Small thought had Count Albert on fjur 
Rosalie, 

Small thought on his faith, or his knight- 
hood, had he ; 

A heathenish damsel his light heart had' 
won, 

The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount Leba- 
non. 

" O Christian, brave Christian, my love 
wouldst thou be. 

Three things must thou do ere I hearken to 
thee ; 

Our laws and our worship on thee shalt thou 
take , 

And this thou shalt first do for Zulema's sake. 

" And, next, in the cavern, where burns 

evermore 
The mystical flame which the Curdmans 

adore, 
Alone, and in silence, three nights shalt 

thou wake , 
And this thou shalt next do for Zulema's 

sake. 

" And, last, thou shalt aid us with counsel 

and hand. 
To drive the Frank robber from Palestine's 

land ; 
For my lord and my love then Count Albert 

I'll take. 
When all this is accomplish'd for Zulema's 

sake." 

He has thrown by his helmet, and cross- 
handled sword. 

Renouncing his knighthood, denying his 
Lord ; 

He has ta'en the green caftan, and turban 
put on, 

For the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon. 

And in the dread cavern, deep deep under 

ground. 
Which fifty steel gates and steel portals 

surround, 
He has watch'd until daybreak, but sight 

saw he none, 
Save the flamj burning bright on its altar oi 

stone. 

Amazed was the Princess, the Soldan 

amazed. 
Sore murmur 'd the priests as on Albert they 

gazed ; 
They search'd all his garments, and, iinder 

his weeds. 
They found, and took from him, his rosary 

beads. 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



3&3 



Again in the cavern, deep deep under 

ground, 
He watch'd the lone night, while the winds 

whistled round ; 
Far off was their murmur, it came not more 

nigh, 
The flame burn'd unmoved, and nought 

else did he spy. 

Loud murmur'd the priests, and amazed 

was the King, 
While man;/ dark spells of their witchcraft 

they sing ; 
They search'd Albert's body, and, lo ! on his 

breast 
Was the sign of the Cross, by his father im- 

press'd. 

The priests they erase it with care and with 
pain, 

And tlie recreant return'd to the cavern 
again , 

But, as he descended, a whisper there 
fell, 

It was his good angel, who bade him fare- 
well ! 

High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd 
and beat, 

And he turn'd him five steps, half resolved 
to retreat , 

But his heart it was harden'd, his purpose 
was gone. 

When he thought of the Maiden of fair Le- 
banon. 

Scarce pass'd he the archway, the thres- 
hold scarce trode. 

When the winds from the four points of 
heaven wer6 abroad, 

They made each steel portal to rattle and 
ring, 

And, borne on the blast, came the dread 
Fire-King, 

Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he 
drew nigh, 

T\\i fire on the altar blazed bickering and 
high ; 

In volcanic explosions the mountains pro- 
claim 

The dreadful approach of the Monarch of 
Flame. 

Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd in 
form 



I ween the stout heart of Count Albert was 

tame. 
When he saw in his terrors the Monarch of 

Flame. 

In his hand a broad falchion blue-glimmer'd 

through smoke, 
And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch 

he spoke 
•' With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus 

long, and no more. 
Till thou bend tj the Cross, and the Virgin 

adore.'' 

The cloud-shrouded Arm gives the weapon; 

and see ! 
The recreant receives the charm'd gift on 

his knee- 
The thunders growl distant, and faint gleam 

the fires. 
As, borne on the whirlwind, the phantom 

retires. 

Count Albert has arm'd him the Payniin 

among, 
Though his heart it was false, yet his arm 

it was strong ; 
And the Red-Cross wax'd faint, and the 

Crescent came on, 
From the day he commanded on Mount 

Lebanon. 

From Lebanon's Forests to Galilee's 

wave ; 
The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the 

brave , 
Till the Knights of the Temple and Knights 

of Saint John, 
With Salem's King Baldwin, against him 

came on. 

The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets re- 
plied. 

The lances were couch'd, and they closed on 
each side; 

And horsemen and horses Count Albert 
o'erthrew, 

Till he pierced the thick tumult King Bald- 
win unto. 

Against the charm'd blade which Count Al- 
bert did wield, 

The fence had been vain of the King's Red- 
cross shield ; 

But a Page thrust him forward the monarch 
before, 



His breath it was lightnmg, his voice it was | And cleft the proud turban the renegade 



storm , 



3^4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORTHS 



So fell was the dlr.t, that Count Albeit 
stoop'd low 

Before the cross'd shield, to his steel saddle- 
bow ; 

And scarce had r.c bent to the Red-cross 
his head, — 

^^ Bonne Grace, Notre Dame''''' he unwit- 
tingly said. 

Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its virtue 
was o'er, 

It sprung from his grasp, and was never 
seen more ; 

But true men have said, that the lightning's 
rcd-v/ing 

Did waft back the branch to the dread Fire- 
King, 

He clench 'd his set teeth, and his gaunt- 
leted hand ; 

He stretch'd, v/ith one buffet, that Page on 
the strand , 

As back from the stripling the broken 
casque roll'd, 

You might see the blue eyes, and the ring- 
lets of gold. 

Short time had Count Albert in horror to 
stare 

On those death-swimming eyeballs and blood- 
clotted hair ; 

For down came the Templars, like Cedron 
in flood, 

And dyed their long lances m Saracen blood. 



The Saracens, Crrdmans, and Ishmaelites 

yield 
To the scallop, the saltier, and crossleted 

shield ; 
And the eagles were gorged v/ith the infidel 

dead. 
From 'Bethsaida's fountains to Naphthali's 

head. 

The Battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.-" 

Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd 'mid 
the slain .? 

And who is yon Page lying cold at his 
knee ? 

Oh, who but Count Albert and fair Rosa- 
lie I— 

The Lady was buried in Salem's bless'd 
bound, 

The Count he was left to the vulture and 
hound : 

Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did 
bring ; 

His went on the blast to the dread Fire- 
King. 

Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can 
tell. 

How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the Cres- 
cent it fell 

And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 'mid 
their glee, 

At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosa- 
lie. 



FREDERICK AND ALICE. 
[1801.] 

This tale is imitated rather than translated, from a fragment introduced ir. Goethe's " ClaudiitA 
von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention .A 
the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess 
to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state- ; and who, after sou^ 
material improvements, published it m his Tales 0/ Wonder 



Frederick leaves the land of France, 
Homeward hastes his steps to measure. 

Careless casts the parting glance 
On the scene of former pleasure. 

Joying in his prancing steed. 

Keen to prove his untried blade, 
•Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead 

Over mountain, moor, and glade. 
Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn, 

Lovely Alice v.-ept alone ; 
Moiirn'd o'er love's fond contract torn, 

Hope, anu peace, and honor flown. 



Mark her breast's convulsive throbs 
See, the tear of anguish flows !— 

Mingling soon with bursting sobs, 
Loud the laugh of frenzy rose, 

Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd ; 

Seven long days and nights are o'er; 
Death and pity brought his aid, 

As the village bell struck four. 
Far from her, and far from France, 

Faithless Frederick onward rides J 
Marking, blithe, the morning's glance 

Mantling o'er the mountain's sides^ 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



365 



Heard 5'e not the boding sound, 
As the tongue of yonder tower, 

Slowlv, to the hills around, 

Told the fourth, the fated hour? 

Starts the steed, and snuffs the air, 
Yet no cause of dread appears ; 

Bristles high the rider's hair. 

Struck with strange mysterious fears. 

Dtsperate as his terrors rise. 
In the steed the spur he hides ; 

From himself in vain he flies ; 
Anxious, restless, on he rides. 

Seven long days, and seven long nights, 
Wild he wander'd, woe the while ! 

Ceaseless care, and causeless fright, 
Urge his footsteps many a mile. 

Dark the seventh sad night descends ; 

Rivers swell, and rain-streams pour 
While the deafening thunder lends 

All the terrors of its roar. 

Weary, wet, and spent with toil. 

Where his head shall Frederick hide? 

Where, but in yon ruin'd aisle. 
By the lightning's flash descried. 

To the portal, dank and low, 

Fast his steed the wanderer bound: 

Down a ruin'd staircase slovv^, 
Next his darkling way he wound. 

Long drear vaults before him lie ! 

Glimmering lights are seen to glide !— 
" Blessed Mary, hear my cry ! 

Deign a sinner's steps to guide 1 " 



Often lost their quivering beam, 
Still the lights move slow before, 

Till they rest their ghastly gleam 
Right against an iron door. 

Thundering voices from within, 
Mix'd with peals of laughter, rose; 

As they fell, a solemn strain 

Lent its wild and wondrous close 1 

'Midst the din, he seem'd to hear 

Voice of friends, by death removed;— 

Well he knew that solemn ^ir, 
'Twas the lay that Alice loved. — 

Hark ! for now a solemn knell, 

Four times on the still night broke; 

Four times, at its deaden 'd swell, 
Echoes from the ruins spoke. 

As the lengthen'd clangors die, 

Slowly opes the iron door ! 
Straight a banquet met his eye, 

But a funeral's form it v/cre ! 

Coffins for the seats extend ; 

All with black the board was spread; 
Girt by parent, brother, friend. 

Long since number. d v/ith the deadl 

Alice, in her grave-clothes bound. 
Ghastly smiling, points a seat ; 

All arose, with thundering sound ; 
All the expected stranger greet. 

High their meagre arms they wave, 
Wild their notes of welcome swell ; 

•' Welcome, traitor, to the grave! 
Perjured, bid the light farewell!" 



THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.* 

[1818.] 

These verses are a literal translation of an ancient Swiss ballad upon the battle of Sernpac^ 
fouj^ht 9th July, 1386, being the victory by which the Swiss cantons established their independ- 
ence : the author, Albert Tchudi, denominated the Souter, from his profession of a shoemaker. 
He was a citizen of Lucerne, esteemed highly among his countrymen, both for his powers as a 
Meister- Singer, or minstrel, and his courage as a soldier. 

The circumstance of their being written by a poet returning from the ^veil-fought nc.d ha 
describes, and in which his country's fortune was secured, may cor.fer on Tchudi's verses an 
interest which they are not entitled to claim from their poetical merit. But ballad poetrv, the 
more literaily it is translated, the more it loses its simplicity, without acquirirg either grace or 
strength ; and tlierefore, some of the faults of the verses must be imputed to the translator's 
feeling it a duty to keep as closely as possible to his original. The various puns, rude attempts 
at pleasantry, and disproportioned episodes must be set down to Tchudi's account, or to the 
taste of his age. 

The military antiquary will derive some amusement from the minute parf'culars which the 
martial poet has recorded. The mode in which tlie Austrian men-at-arms received the charge 

* First published in Blackwood^ Feb., 1818. 



^66 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



of the Swiss, was by forming a ph.ilanx, which they defended with their long lances. The ijallant 
Winkelreid, who sacrificed his cwn life by rushing among the spears, clasping in his arms as 
many as he could grasp, and thus opening a gajj in those iron batlalions, is celebrated in Swiss 
history When fairly mingled together,"the urwiekiy length of their weapons, and cunibrons 
weight of their defensive armor, rendered the Austrian men-at-arms a very unequal match for 
the light-armed mountaineers. The victories cblained by the Swiss over the German chivahy, 
hitherto deemed as formidable on foot as on horseback, led to important changes in the art o£ 
war. The poet describes the Austrian knights and squires as cutting the peaks from their boots 
ere they could act upon foot, in allusion to an inconvenient piece of foppery, often mentioned 
in the JVIiddle Ages. Leopold III., Archduke of Austria, called "the handsome man-at-arniS," 
was slain in the battle of Sempach, with the flower of his chivalry. 



'TwAS when amotig our linden-trees 
The bees had housed in swarnis, 

(And gray-hair'd peasants say that these 
Betoken foreign arms,) 

Then look'd we down to Willisow, 

The land was all in tiame ; 
We knew the Archduke Leopold 

With all his army came. 

The Austrian nobles made their vow, 

So hot their heart and bold, 
" On Switzer carles vve'll trample now, 

And slay both young and old."' 
With clarion loud, and banner proud, 

From Zurich on the lake, 
In martial pomp and fair array, 

Their onward march they make. 

" Now list, ye lowland nobles all — 
Ye seek the mountain strand. 

Nor wot ye what shall be your lot 
In such a dangerous land, 

" I rede ye, shrive ye of your sins, 

Before ye farther go , 
A skirmish in Helvetian hills 

May send your souls to woe."— 
" But where now ^hall we find a priest 

Our shrift that he may hear : " 
" The Switzer priest * has ta'en the field, 

He deals a penance drear. 
" Right heavily upon yotrr head 

He'll lay his hand of steel , 
And with his trusty partisan 

Your absolution deal."— 
*Twas on a Monday morning then, 

The corn was steep'd in dew, 
Aud merry maids had sickles ta'en, 

When the liost io Sempach drew. 
The stalwart men of fair Lucerne 

Together have they join'd ; 
The pith and core of manhood stern, 

Was none cast looks behind. 



All the Swiss priests able to bear arms 
fought in this strife for their native land. 



It was the Lord of Hare-castle, 

And to the Duke he said, 
" Yon little band of brethren true 

Will meet us undismay'd." — 

" O Hare-castle, thou heart of hare ! " 

Fierce Oxenstern replied. 
" Shalt see then how the game will fare," 

The taunted kmght replied. 

There was lacing then of helmets bright, 

And closing ranks amain ; 
The peaks they L^w'd from their boot 
points 

Might well-nigh load a wain.f 

And thus they to each other said, 

" Yon handful down to hew 
Will be no boastful tale to tell, 

The peasants are so few." 
The gallant Swiss Confederates there 

They pray'd to God aloud, 
And he display'd his rainbow fair 

Against a swarthy cloud. 

Then heart and pulse throbb'd more 9HA 

more 

With courage firm and high, 
And down the good Confederates bore 

On the Austrian chivalry. 
The Austrian lion 'gan to growl, 

And toss his mane and tail ; 
And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt, 

Went whistling forth like hail. 
Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there, 

The game was nothing sweet ; 
The boughs of many a stately tree 

Lay shiver'd at their feet. 

The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast, 

So close their spears they laid ; 
It chafed the gallant Winkelreid, 

Who to his comrades said — 



t The boots of this period had long points ?,t 
the toes ; so long that in the time of our Richard 
II. they were chained up to the knees. Ol 
course, they greatly impeded the wearer's 
movements on foot- 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN, 



S^'i 



'* I have a virtuous wife at home, 

A wife and infant son ; 
I leave them to my country's care, — 

This field shall soon be won. 

" These nobles lay their spears right thick, 

And keep full firm array. 
Yet shall my cnarge their order break, 

And make my brethren way." 

Hf rush'd against the Austrian band, 

In desperate career, 
And with his body, breast, and hand, 

bore down each hostile spear. 

Four lances spiinter'd on his crest. 

Six shiver'd in his side ; 
Still on the serried files he press'd— 

He broke their ranks, and died. 

This patriot's self devoted deed 

First tamed the Lion's mood, 
And the four forest cantons freed 

From thraldom by his blood. 

Right where his charge had made a lane 

His valiant comrades burst, 
With sword, and axe, and partisan, 

And hack, and stab, and thrust. 

The daunted Lion 'gan to whine, 

And granted ground amain, 
The Mountain Bull * he bent his brows, 

And gored his sides again. 

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield, 

At Sempach in the flight. 
The cloister vaults at Konig's-field 

Hold many an Austrian knight. 

It was the Archduke Leopold, 

So lordly would he ride. 
But he came against the Switzer churls, 

And they slew him in his pride. 

The heifer said unto the bull, 

" And shall I not complain ? 
There came " foreign nobleman, 

To milk me on the plain. 

•' One thrust of ttiine outrageous horn 

Has gall'd the knight so sore. 
That to the churchyard he is borne 

To range our glens no more." 



An Austrian noble left the stour, 
And fast the liiglit "gan take; 

And he arnvod in !iici-:less hour 
At Sempach on thi lake 

He and his squire a fisher cali'd, 
(His name was Hans Von Rot,) 

" For love, or meed, or charity, 
Receive us in thy boat i " 

Their anxious call the fisher heard, 

And, glad the meed to '^'in, 
His shallop to the shore he steer'd, 

And took the flyers in. 

And while against the tide and wind 

Hans stoutly rowed his way. 
The noble to his foUcv.er sign d 

He should the bcatman slay 

The fisher's bick was en cnem '•urn'd., 

The squire tiis dagger drew, 
Hans .saw his chadow in the iakj, 

The boat h.- overthrew 

He 'v,-helm'd the boat, and as they strov«g 
He stunn'd them with hir. oar, 

" Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs, 
You'll ne'er stab boatman more. 

" Two gilded fishes in the lake 

This morning have I caught, 
Their silver scales may much avail, 

Their carrion fiesh is naught." 

It was a messenger of woe 

Has sought the Austrian land : 

" Ah ! pracious lady, evil news i 
My Icrd lies on the strand. 

" At Sempach, on the battle-field, 
His bloody corpse lies there." — 

" Ah, gracious God " the lady cried, 
'• Wliat tidings of despair i " 

Now would you know the muutvel wight 

Who sings of strife so stern, 
Albert the Souter is he hight, 

A burgher of Lucerne. 

A merry man was he, I wot, 

The night he made the lay, 
Returning from the bloody spot, 

Where God had judged the day. 



* The Urus, or wild-bull, gave name to the Canton of UrL 



36» 



scorrs poetical works. 



THE NOBLE MORINGER * 



AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 



[1S19.] 



O, WILL you hear a knightly tale of old 

Bohemian day, 
It was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed 

he lay ; 
He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame, that 

was as sweet as May, 
And said, " Now, lady of my heart, attend 

the words I say. 

II. 
" 'Tis 1 have vow'd a pilgrimage unto a dis- 
tant shrinj, 
And 1 must s::ck Saint Thomas-land, and 

leave the land that's mine ; 
Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, 

so thou wilt pledge thy fay, 
That thou for my return wilt wait seven 

twelvemonths and a day." 
in. 
Then out and spoke that Lady bright, sore 

troubled in her cheer, 
" Now tell me true, thou noble knight, what 

order takest thou here ; 
And who shall lead thy vassal band, and 

hold thy lordly sv'/ay, " 
And be thy lady's guardian true when thou 

art far away ? " 

IV. 

Out spoke the noble Moringer, " Of that 

have thou no care, 
Tliere's many a valiant gentleman of me 

holds living fair ; 
The trustiest sliall rule my land, my vassals 

and my state, 
And be a guardian tried and true to thee, 

my lovely mate. 

V. 

" As Christian-man, I needs must keep the- 

vow whicli I h:ive plight, 
VVlien I am far in foreign land, remember 

thy true knight ; 
And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, for 

vain were sorrow now, 
But grant thy Moringer his leave, since God 

hath heard his vow." 



VI. 



It was the noble Moringer from bed he made 

him boune. 
And met him there his Chamberlain, witli 

ewer and witli gown : 
He flung his mantle on his back, 'twas 

furr'd with miniver. 
He dipp'd his hand in v/ater cold, and 

bathed his forehead fair. 

VII. 

" Now hear," he said, " Sir Chamberlain, 

true vassal art thou mine, 
And such the trust that I repose in that 

proved worth of thine, 
For seven years shalt thou rule my towers, 

and lead my vassal train, 
And pledge thee foi my lady's faith till I 

return again." 

VIII. 

The Chamberlain was blunt and true, and 

sturdily said he, 
" Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and 

take this rede from inc : 
That woman's faith's a brittle trust— Seven 

twelvemonths didst thou say ? 
I'll pledge me for no lady's truth beyond 

the seventh fair day." 



The noble Baron turn'd him round, his 

heart v/as full of care, 
His gallant Esquire stood him nigh, he v/aj 

Marstetten's heir, 
To whom he spoke right anxiously, *' Thou 

trusty squire to me, 
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when \ 

am o'er the sea ? 

X. 

" To watch and ward my castle strong, and 

to protect my land, 
.\nd to the hunting or the host to lead my 

vassal band ; 
And pledge thee for my lady's faith till 

seven long years are gone, 
And guard her as Our Lady dear was 

guarded by Saint John." 



* Publbhed in the Edifiburgh Annual Register ^ 18 19. 



BALLADS PROM THE GERMAN. 



369 



Marstetten's heir was kind and true, but 
fiery, hot, and young, 

And readily he answer made with too pre- 
sumptuous tongue ; 

" My noble lord, cast care away, and on 
your joiu'ney wend, 

And trust this charge to me until your pil- 
grimage have end. 

XII. 

** Rely upon my plighted faith, which shall 

b3 truly tried. 
To guard your lands, and ward your 

towers, and with your vassals ride , 
And for your lovely Lady's faith, so vuiu- 

ous and so dear, 
I'll gage my head it knows no change, be 

absent thirty year." 

XIII. 

The noble Moringer took cheer when thus 
he heard him speak, 

And doubt forsook his troubled brow, and 
sorrow left his cheek , 

A long adieu he bids to all — hoists top- 
sails, and away, 

And wanders in Saint Thomas-land seven 
tv/elvemonths and a day. 

XIV 

It was the noble Moringer within an 

orchard slept. 
When on the Baron's slumbering sense a 

boding vision crept; 
And whisper'd in his ear a voice, "'Tis 

time, Sir Knight, to wake. 
Thy lady and thy heritage another master 

take. 

XV. 
" Thy tower another banner knows, thy 

steeds another rein, 
And stoop them to another's will thy gal- 
lant vassal train ; 
And she, the Lady of thy love, so faithful 

once and fair, 
This night within thy father's hall she weds 

Marstetten's heir." 

XVI. 

It is the noble Moringer starts up and 

tears his beard, 
" O would that I had ne'er been born ! 

what tidings have I heard? 
To lose my lordship and my lands the less 

would be my care. 
But, God ! that e'er a squire untrue should 

wed my Lady fair. 



' O good Saint Thomas, hear," he pray'd, 

" my patron Saint art thou, 
A traitor robs me of my land even while 1 

pay my vow ! 
My wife he brings to infamy that was so 

pure of name. 
And I am far in foreign land, and must 

endure the shame." 

XVIII. 

It was the good Saint Thomas, then, whe 

heard his pilgrim's prayer, 
And sent a sleep so deep and dead that it 

o'erpower'd his care ; 
He waked in fair Hohemian land out- 

stretch'd beside a rill, 
High on the right a castle stood, low on 

the left a mill. 

XIX, 

The Moringer he started up as one from 

spell unbound, 
And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed 

wildly all around ; 
" I know my fathers' ancient towers, the 

mill, the stream I know, 
Now blessed be my patron Saint who 

cheer'd his pilgrim's woe ! " 

XX 

He leant upon his pilgrim staff, and to the 
mill he drew. 

So alter'd v/as his goodly form that none 
their master knew ; 

The Baron to the miller said, " Good 
friend, for charity. 

Tell a poor palmer in your land what tid- 
ings may there be ? " 

XXI. 

The miller answer'd him again, " He 

knew of little news. 
Save that the Lady of the land did a new 

bridegroom choose ; 
Her husband died in distant land, such is 

the constant word. 
His death sits heavy on our souls, he was 

a Vv^orthy Lord. 

XXII. 

" Of him I held the little mill which wins 

me living free, 
God rest the Baron in his grave, he still 

was kind tc me ! 
And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, 

and millers take their toll. 
The priest that prays for Moringer shall 

have both cope and stole." 



37^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXIII. 

It was the noble Moringer to climb the 

hill began, 
And stood before the bolted gate a woe 

and weary man ; 
" Now help me, every saint in heaven that 

can compassion take, 
To gain the entrance of my liall this woeful 

match to break." 

XXIV. 

His very knock it sounded sad, his call 

was sad and slow, 
For heart and head, and voice and hand, 

were heavy all with woe ; 
And to the warder thus he spoke : " Friend, 

to thy Lady say, 
A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves 

harbor for a day. 

XXV. 

*• I've wander'd many a weary step, my 
strength is well-nigh done. 

And if she turn me from her gate I'll see 
no morrow's sun ; 

I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a 
pilgrim's bed and dole, 

And for the sake of Moringer's, her once- 
loved husband's soul." 

XXVI, 

It was the stalwart warder then he came 

his dame before, — 
*' A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil'd, stands 

at the castle-door ; 
And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, 

for harbor and for dole, 
And for the sake of Moringer thy noble 

husband's soul." 

XXVII. 

The Lady's gentle heart was moved, "Do 

up the gate," she said, 
" And bid the wanderer welcome be to 

banquet and to bed ; 
And since he names my husband's name, 

£0 that he lists to stay, 
These towers shall be his harborage a 

twelvem.onth and a day." 

XXVIII. 

It v/as the stalwart warder then undid the 

portal broad, 
It was the noble Moringer that o'er the 

threshold strode ; 
" And have thou thanks, kind Heaven,'' 

he said, " though from a man of sin, 
That the true lord stands here once more 

his castle-Erate within." 



Then up the halls paced Moringer, !lis 

step was sad and slow ; 
It sat full heavy on his heart, none seem'd 

their Lord to know ; 
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppress'd 

with woe and wrong. 
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him 

seem'd little space so long. 

XXX. 

Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and 

come was evening liour. 
The time was nigh Vv'hen new-made brides 

retire to nuptial bower ; 
" Our castle's wont," a brides-man said, 

" hath been both firm and long, 
No guest to harbor in our halls till he 

shall chant a song." 

XXXI. 

Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there 

as he sat by the bride, 
" My merry minstrel folk," quoth he, " lay 

shalm and harp aside ; 
Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the 

castle's rule to hold, 
And well his guerdon will I pay with 

garment and with gold." — 

XXXII. 

" Chill flows the lay of frozen age," 'twas 

thus the pilgrim sung, 
" Nor golden meed nor garment gay 

unlocks his heavy tongue ; 
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at 

board as rich as thine, 
And by side as fair a bride with all her 

charms was mine. 

XXXIII. 

" But time traced furrows on my face 

and I grew silver-hair'd. 
For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, 

she left this brow and beard, 
Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread 

life's latest stage. 
And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay 

of frozen age." 

XXXIV. 

It was the r.oble Lady there this woeful lay 

that hears, 
And for the aged pilr^rim's grief her eye 

was dimm'd v/i:h tears ; 
She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden 

beaker take. 
And bear it to the palmer poor to qnaffit 

for her sake. 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



371 



XXXV. 

It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd 

amid the wine 
A bridal ring of burning gold so costly and 

so fine : 
Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you 

but the sooth, 
'Twas with that very rmg of gold he 

pledged his bridal trutli. 

XXXVI 

Then to the cupbearer he said, " Do me one 

kindly deed. 
And should my better days return, full rich 

shall be thy meed : 
Bear back the golden cup agam to yonder 

bride so gay. 
And crave her of her courtesy to pledge 

the palmer gray." 

XXXVII, 

The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was 

the boon denied, 
The golden cup he took again, and bore it to 

the bride ; 
" Lady," he said, " your reverend guest sends 

this, and bids me pray. 
That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the 

palmer gray." 

XXXVIII. 

The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she 

views it close and near. 
Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 

" Th ■ Moringer is here 1 
Then might you see her start from seat, 

while tears in torrents fell, 
But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the ladies 

best can tell. 

XXXIX. 

But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and 

every saintly power, 
That had return' d the Moringer before the 

midnight hour ; 



And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that 

never was there bride, 
That had like her preserved her troth, or 

been so sorely tried. 



Yes, here i claim the praise," she said, " to 
' constant matrons due, 

j Who keep the troth that they have plight, 
! so steadfastly and true , 

1 For count the term howe'er you will, S3 
; that you count aright, 

! Seven twelve-months and a day are out, 
\ when bells toll twelve to-night." 



' It was Marstettcn then rose up, his talchion 

' there he drew, 

! He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down 

I his weapon threw , 

; '• My oath and knightly faith are broke," 

I these were the words he said, 

I " Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, 

I and take thy vassal's head." 



XLU. 

Moringer he smiled, and then 



I The nobl 

aloud did say, 
" He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd 

seven twelve-months and a day ; 
My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame 

speaks her sweet and fair, 
I give her for the bride you lose, and name 

her for my heir. 

XLIII 

" The young bridegroom hath youthfu/ 

bride, the old bridegroom the old, 
Whose faitli was kept till term and tide so 

punctually were told ; 
But blessings on the warder kind that oped 

my castle gate, 
For had I come at morrow tide, I came a 

day too late." 



THE ERL-KING 



FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 

(The Erl-King is a goblin that haunts the Black Forest in Tliuringia.— To be read by a caiidla 
particularly long in the snuff.) 



O, WHO rides by night thro' the woodland 

so wild ? 
It is the fond father embracing his 

child i 



And close the boy nestles within his loved 

arm, 
To hold himself fast, and tt^ keep himself 

warm. 



37« 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



"O father, see yonder 1 see yonder!" ne She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and 

says , ^^'^^°' wild, 

" My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to 

o-aze f " ^"i^y child." 

«0,%sthe Erl-King with his crown and .. q f^^j^g^.^ ^^ father, and saw you not 

his shroud." plain 

'^ iNo, my son, it is but a dark wreath of che ^j^^ Erl-King's pale daughter glide past 

cloiid." thro' the rain ? '" 

(THE ERL-KING SPEAKS.) 

O come and go with me, thou loveliest 
child ; 

By many a gay sport shall tliy time be be- 
guiled ; 

My mother keeps for thee full many a fair 
toy, 

And many a fine flower siiall she pluck for 
my boy." 



'*0 father, my father, and did you not 
hear 

The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear ? " — 
** Be still, my heart's da/lmg — my child, be 

at ease ; 
It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the 

trees." 

ERL-KING. 

" O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest 

boy? 
My daughter shall tend thee with care and 

with joy ; 



" O yes, my loved treasure, I kngw it full 

soon ; 
It was the gray willow thdt danced to tht 

moon." 

ERL-KING. 

" O come and go with me, no longef 

delay, 
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee 

away."— 
" O father ! O father ! now, now keep your 

hold, 
The Erl-King has seized me— his grasp is so 

cold!"— 

Sore tremlDled the father ; he spurr'd thro* 

the wild, 
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering 

child; 
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in 

dread. 
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was 

dead ! " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



JUVENILE LINES. 

.S-ROM VIRGIL. 
1782.— iEXAT. II. 

♦' Scott's autobiography tells us thai his trans- 
s .tions in verse from Horace and Virgil were 
. Xen approved by Dr. Adams [Rector of the 
Wigli School, Edinburgh]. One of these little 
pieces, written in a weak boyish Fcrawl, within 
pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully 
preserved by his mother ; it was found folded up 
i\-» a cover, inscribed by the old lady. — ''My 
Walter'' s first lines^ijiz." — Lockhart, Life of 
Bctitty vol. i. p. 129. 

In awful ruins ^tna thunders nigh, 

And sends in p\tchy whirlwinds to the sky 



Black clouds of smoke, which still as they 

aspire, 
From their dark sides there bursts the glow- 
ing fire ; 
At other times huge balls of fire are toss'd. 
That lick the stars, and in the smoke are 

lost: 
Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions 

torn, 
Efnits huge rocks, which instantly are borne 
With loud explosions to the starry skies. 
The stones made liquid as the huge mass 

flies, 
Then back again with greater weight recoils, 
While yEtna thundering from the bottom 
boils. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ON A THUNDER STORM 

1783. — yEx. 12. 

" In Scott's Introduction to the Lay, he 
alludes to an original effusion of these ' school- 
boy days,' prompted by a thunder-storm, which 
he says 'was much approved of, until a malevo- 
lent critic sprung up in the shape of an apothe- 
cary's blue-buskined wife,' &c., &c. Tliese 
lines, and another short piece, " On the Setting 
Sun,' were lately found wrapped up in a cover, 
inscribed by Dr. Adams, * Walter Scott, July, 
1783-' " 
Loud o'er my head though awful thunders 

roll. 
And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole 
Yet 'tis thy voice, my God, that bids them 

fly, 

Thy arm directs those lightnings through 

the sky. 
Then let the good thy mighty name revere, 
And harden'd sinners thy just vengeance 

fear. 



ON THE SETTING SUN. 

1783. 
Those evening clouds, that setting ray, 
And beauteous tints, serve to display 

Their great Creator's praise ; 
Then let the short-lived thing cali'd man, 
Whose life's comprised within a span. 

To him his homage raise. 
We often praise the evening clouds, 

And tints so gay and bold, 
But seldom think upon our God, 

Who tinged these clouds with gold. 

THE VIOLET. 

These lines were first published in the Eng- 
lish Minstrelsy, 18 10. They were written in 
1797, on occasion of the poet's disappointment 
in love. — See Life of Scott, vol. i. p. 333. 

The violet in her green-v,-ood bower. 

Where birchen bou2:hs with hazels mingle, 
May boast itself the fairest flower 

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 
Though fair her gems of azure hue. 

Beneath the dev.'-drop's v/eight reclining ^ 
I've seen an eye of lovelier hue, 

More sweet through v/at'ry lustre shining. 
The summer sun that dew shall dry. 

Ere yet the day be past its morrow ; 
No longer in my false love's eye 

Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow. 



373 

— r — 



TO A LADY. 



ViriTH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. 

Written in 1797, on an excursion from Gills 
land, in Cumberland. See Life, vol. i. p. 365. 

Take these flowers which, purple waving. 

On the ruin'd rampart grew. 
Where, the sons of freedom braving, 

Rome's imperial standards flew. 

Warriors from the breach of danger 

Pluck no longer laurels there ; 
They but yield the passing stranger 

Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. 



WAR-SONG 

OF THE ROYAL EDIXBURGH LIGHT 
DRAGOONS. 

1797. 

To horse ! to horse ! the standard 

The bugles sound the call ; 
The Gallic navy stems the seas, 
The voice of battle's on the breeze, 

Arouse ye, one and all ! 

From high Dunedin's towers we come, 

A band of brothers true ; 
Our casques the leopard's spoils suiTound, 
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd; 

We boast the red and blue.* 

Though tamely couch'd to Gallia's frown 

Dull Holland's tardy train; 
Their ravish'd toys tho' Romans mourn ; 
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn, 

And, foaming, gnaw the chain ; 

Oh ! had they mark'd the avenging call 

Their brethren's murder gave, 
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, 
Nor patriot valor, desperate grown. 
Sought freedom in the grave ! 

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, 

In Freedom's temple born. 
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile 
To hail a master in our isle. 

Or brook a victor's scorn ? 

No ! though destruction o'er the land 

Come pouring as a flood, 
The sun, that sees our falling day. 
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway, 

And set that night in blood. 



* The royal colors. 



574 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



For gold let Gallia's legions fight, 

Or p]und<?r*s bloody gain ; 
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, 
To guard our king, to fence our law, 

Nor shall their edge be vain. 

If ever breath of Britisli gale 

Sliall fan the tri-color, 
Or footstep of invader rude, 
With rapine foul, and red with blood 

Pollute our happy shore, — 

Then farewell home ! and farewell friends ! 

Adieu, each tender tie ! 
Resolved, we mingle in the tide. 
Where charging squadrons furious ride, 

To corrquer or to die. 

To horse ! to horse ! the sabres gleam ; 

High sounds our bugle-call ; 
Combined by hont r's sacred tie. 
Our word is Laxvs and Liberty ' 

March forward, one and all ! 



THE BARD'S INCANTATION. 

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF IN- 
VASION IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. 

The forest of Glenmore is drear, 

It is all of black pine and the dark oak- 
tree ; 
And the midnighc wind, to the mountain 
deer, 
Is whistling the forest lullaby ; 
The moon looks through the drifting 

storm. 
But the troubled lake reflects not her form, 
For the waves roll whitening to the land, 
And dash against the shelvy strand. 
There is a voice among the trees, 

That mingles with the groaning oak — 
That mingles with the stormy breeze, 
• And the lake-waves dashing against the 

rock ; — 
There is a voice within the wood, 

The voice of t' e bard in fitful mood , 
His song was louder than the blast. 
As the bard of Glenmore through the forest 
past. 

" Wake ye from yoiu- sleep of death, 
Minstrels and bards of other days 1 

For the midnight wind is on the heath, 
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze : 

The Spectre with his Bloody Hand,* 



* The forest of Glenmor.: is liaunted by a 
spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand. 



Is wandering through the wild woodland : 
The owl and the raven are mute for dread, 
And the time is meet to awake the dead I 
" Souls of the mighty, wake and say, 

To what high strain your harps were 
strung, 
"When Lochlhi plow'd her billowy way. 

And on your shores her Norscm.en flun§( * 
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil aiid blood, 
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food, 
All, by your harpings, doom'd to die 
On bloody I.args and Loncarty.t 
" Mute are ye all ? No murmurs strange 

Upon the midnight breeze; sail by ; 
Nor through the pines, with whistling 
change 

r.Iimic the harp's wild ..armony? 
Mute are ye now ? — Ye ne'er were mute, 
When Murder with Jiis bloody foot. 
And Rapine with his iron hand, 
Were hovering near yon mountain strand- 
" O yet awake the strain to tell. 

By every deed in song enroU'd, 
By every chief who fought or fell. 

For Albion's weal m battle bokl : — 
From Coilgachjt first who roU'd his car 
Through the deep ranks of Roman war, 
To him, of veteran memory dear, 
Who victor died on Aboukir. 
" By all their swords, by all their scars, 

By all their names, a mighty spell. 
By all then- w-unds, by all their wans, 

Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! 
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, 
More impious than the heathen Dane, 
More grasping than .^ll-grasping Rome, 
Gaul's ravening legions hither come ! "— 
The wind is husli'd, and still the lake — 

Strange inurmurs fill my tingling ears. 
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake, 

At the drjad voice of other years — 
" When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, 
And blades round warriors' heads were 

ilung, 
The foremost of the band were we, 
And hymn'd the joys of Liberty ! " 



HELVELLYN.. 

1805. 

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman 
of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, 



t Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland 
received two bloody defeats. 
I The Galgacus of Tacitus. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



375 



perished by losing his way on the mountain 
Htlvellyn. His remains were not discovered 
till three months afterwards, when they were 
found guarded by a faithful tirrier-bitch, his 
constant attendant durmg frequent solitary 
rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and 
Westmoreland. 

I clii^ib'd the dark braw of the mighty 
Helvellyn, 
Lakes and mountains bsneath me 
gleam'd misty and vv;de ; 

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle 
was yelling, 
And startmg around me the echoes re- 
pliea 

On the right, Stnden-edge round the Red- 
tarn was bending, 

And Catchedicam its left verge was de- 
fending 

One huge nameless rock m the front was 
ascending, 
When 1 mark'd the sad spot where the 
wanderer had died. 

Dark green was tha'. spot "mid the brown 
mountain-heather, 
Where the Pilgrim cf Nature lay 
stretch'd in decay, 

Li'ke the corpse of an outcast abandon'd 
to weather, 
Till the mountain winds wasted the 
tenantless clay. 

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely ex- 
tended, 

For, faithful m death, his mute favorite 
attended, 

The much-loved remains of her master de- 
fended. 
And chased the hill-fox and the raven 
away. 

How long didst thcu think that his silence 

was slumber ? 
When thj w.nd v/aved his garment, how 

oft didst thou start ? 
How many long days and long weeks didst 

ihoa number, 
Ere ho faded before thee, the friend of 

thy heart ? 
And, ch ! was it meet, that — no requiem 

read o'er him — 
No mother to weep, and no friend to de- 

plor-j him, 
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd 

before him — 
Unhonor'd the Pilgrim from life should 

depart 'i 



When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant 

has yielded. 
The tapestry waves dark round the dini' 

lighted hall ; 
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is 

shielded, 
And pages stand mute by the canopied 

pall ; 
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the 

torches are gleaming , 
In the proudly arch'd chapel the banners 

are beaming, 
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is 

streaming, [fall. 

Lamenting a Chief o'' the people should 

But meeter lor thee, gentle lover of 

nature. 
To lay down thy head like the meek 

mountain lamb, 
When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff 

huge in stature, 
And draws his iast sob by the side of his 

dam. 
And more stately thy couch by this desert 

lake lying. 
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover 

flying, 
With one faithful friend but to witness thy 

dying, 
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catche- 
dicam. 



THE DYING BARD. 

J 806. 
Air — Daffydz Gangwen. 

The Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on 
Ills death-bed, demanded his harp, and played 
the anr to which these verses are adapted ; re- 
questing that it might b2 performed at his 
funeral. 

I. 
DiNAS Emlinn, lament ; for the moment 

is nigh. 
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes 

shrJl die : 
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall 

rave. 
And mix his wild notes with the wild dash- 
ing wave. 

II. 
In spring and in autumn thy glories of 

shade 
Unhonor'd shall flourish, unhonor'd shall 
fade; 



37^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the 

tongue, 
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture 

that suns;. 



Thy buns, Dinas Emhnn, may march in 

their pride, 
And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's 

side ; 
But where is the harp shall give life to their 

name ? 
And where is the bard shall give heroes their 

fame P 

And oh, Dmas Emiinn ! thy daughters so 

fair, 
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the 

dark hair ; 
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their 

eye, 
When half of their charms with Cadwallon 

shall die ? 

V. 

Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved 

scene, 
To join the dim choir of the bards who 

have been ; 
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the 

Old, 
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold. 

VI. 

And adieu, Dinas Emiinn ! still green be 
tliy shades, 

Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless 
thy maids ! 

And tliou, whose faint warblings my weak- 
ness can tell, 

Farewell, my loved Harp, my last treasure, 
farewell 1 



THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. 

1806. 
Air — The JVar-Son^^ 0/ the Me?i of Gla- 
morgan . 
The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, 
and possessuig only an inferior breed of horses, 
were usually imable to encounter the shock of 
the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, 
however, they were successful m repelling the 
invaders; and the following verses arc supposed 
lo celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil 
and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of 



Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire, 
Rymny is a stream which di%'ides tlie counties 
of Monmouth and Glamorgan : Cacrphili, the 
scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its 
banks, dignitied by the ruins of a very ancient 
castle. 

I. 
Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, 
And hammers dur and anvifsoirnds, 
And armorers, Vv-ith iron toil. 
Barb many a steed for battle's broil. 
Foul fall the hand vvhich bends the .steel 
Around the courser's thundering heel, 
That e'er shall dint a sable wound 
On fair Glamorgan's velvet groimd I 

u. 
From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of mom, 
Was hearcl afar the bugle horn ; 
And forth m banded pomp and piide, 
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. 
They swore their banners broad should 

gleam, 
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream ; 
They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel 
Thj Normarr charger's spurning heel. 



And sooth they swore — the sun arose, 

And Rymny's wave with crimson glov.^s 1 
For Clare's red banner, floating wide, 
Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide ! 
And sooth they vow'd — the trampled green 
Show'd where hot Neville's charge had 

been : 
In every sable hoof-tramp stood 
A Norman horr:man's curdlmg blood 1 

IV 

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil, 
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil i 
Their orphans long the art may rue. 
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. 
No more the stamp of armed steed 
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead ; 
Nor trace be there, in early spring, 
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring. 



THE MAID OF TORO, 
1806. 
O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of 
Toro, 
And weak were the whispers that waved 
the dark wood. 
All as a fan- maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow. 
Sorely sigh'd to tlie breezes, and wept to 
the flood. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



371 



"O saints! from the mansions of bliss 
lowly bending ; 
Sweet Virgin ! who hearest the suppliant's 
cry, 
Now grant my petition, in anguish ascend- 
ing, 
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die ! '' 

AW distant and faint were the sounds of the 
battle, 
With the breezes they rise, with the 
breezes they fail, 
rill the shout, and the groan, and the con- 
flict's dread rattle, 
And the chase's wild clamor, came loading 
the gale. 
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so 
dreary ; 
Slowly approachmg a warrior was seen ; 
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so 
weary. 
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his 
mien 

" O save thee, fair maid, for our armies are 
flying! 
O save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is 
low ! 
Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry 
is lying, 
And fast through the woodland approaches 
the foe." 
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow. 
And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd 
with despair : 
And when the sun sank on the sweet lake of 
Toro, 
Forever he set to the Brave and the Fair. 



THE PALMER. 

1806. 

**0 OPEN the door, some pity to show, 
Keen blows the northern wind ! 

The glen is white with tlie drifted snow, 
And the path is hard to find, 

" Mo outlaw seeks your castle gate, 

^ From chasing the King's deer, 
Though even an outlaw's wretched state 
Might claim compassion here. 

" A weary Palmer, worn and weak, 

I wander for my sin ; 
O open, for Our Lady's sake I 

A pilgrim's blessing winl 



" I'll give you pardons from the Pope. 

And reliques from o'er the sea ;- 
Or if for these you will not ope, 

Yet open for charity.' 

" The hare is crouching in her form, 

The hart beside the hind ; 
An aged man, amid the storm, 

No shelter can I find. 

" You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, 
Dark, deep, and strong is he. 

And I must ford the Ettrick o'er. 
Unless you pity me. 

" The iron gate is bolted hard, 

At which I knock in vain ; 
The owner's heart is closer barr'd. 

Who hears me thus complain. 

" Farewell, farewell ! and Mary grant, 

When old and frail you be, 
You never may the shelter want, 

That's now denied to me." 
The Ranger on his couch lay warm, 

And heard him plead in vain ; 
But oft amid December's storm, 

He'll hear that voice again : 

For lo, when through the vapors dank, 
Morn shone on Ettrick fair, 

A corpse amid "-lie alders rank, 
The Palmer welter'd there. 



THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. 



There is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when 
Neidpath Castle, near Peeb.es, was inhabited 
by the Earls of March, a mutu:;! passion sub- 
sisted between a daughter of that noble faniilj', 
and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick 
Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuit- 
able by her parents, the young man went 
abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into 
a consumption; and at length, as die only 
means of saving her life, her father consented 
that her lover should be recalled. Or. the day 
when he v/as expected to pass through Peebles, 
on the road to Tushielaw, the voung lady, 
though much exhausted, caused heiself to be 
carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, 
belonging to the family, that she might see 
him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eager- 
ness gave such force to her organs, that she is 
said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps 
at an incredible distariCe. But Tushielaw, un- 
prepared for the change in her appearance, and 
not expecting to see her in that place, rode on 



378 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



without recognk<og her, or even slackening his 
pace. The laa^.; was unable to support the 
shock ; and, after a short struggle, died in the 
arms of her atttadants. There is an incident 
similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamil- 
ton's '' i'ieur d'ii^paie." 

O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, 

And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
And love, in life's extremity, 

Can lend an hour of cheering. 
Disease had been in Mary's bower, 

And slow decay from mourning, 
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower, 

To watch her love's returning. 

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 

Her form decay'd by pining, 
Till through her wasted hand, at night, 

You saw the taper shining ; 
By fits, a sultry hectic hue 

Across her cheek was fiyin,^ ; 
By fits, so ashy pale she grew. 

Her maidens thought her dying. 

Yet keenest powers to see and hear, 

Seem'd in her frame residing; 
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear, 

She heard her lover's riding ; 
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd, 

She knew, and waved to greet him ; 
And o'er the battlement did bend, 

As on the wing to meet him. 

He came— rhe pass'd— a heedless gaze. 

As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
Her welcome, =poke in faltering phrase, 

Lost in his courser's prancing — 
The castle arch, whose hollow tone 

Returns each whisper spoken, 
Could s( arcely catch the feeble moan, 

Which told her heart was broken. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

1806. 

All joy was bereft me the day that you 
left me, 
And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon 
wide sea ; 
O weary betide it ! I wander beside it, 
.And bann'd it for parting my Willie and 
me. 

Far o'er the wave bast thou follow'd thy 
fortune. 
Oft fought the squadrons of France and 
of Spain ; 



Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at part- 
ing, 
Now I hae got my Willie again. 

When the sky it was mirk, and the winds 
they were wailing, 
I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my ee, 
And thought o' the bark where my WillTe 
was sailing. 
And wish'd that the tempest could a' 
. blaw on me. 

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her moor- 
ings 
Now that my wanderer s m safety at 
hame. 
Music to me were the wildest winds' roar- 
ing, 
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark 
ocean faem. 

When the lights they did blaze, and tlie 
guns they did rattle, 
And blithe was each heart for the great 
victory. 
In secret I wept for the dangers of battle. 
And the glory itself was scarce comfort 
to me. 

But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly 
listen. 
Of each bold adventure, and every brave 
scar ; 
And trust me, I'll smile, though my een 
they may glisten ; 
For sweet after danger's the tale of the 
war, 

And oh, how we doubt when there's distance 
'tween lovers. 
When there's naething to speak to the 
heart thro' the ee ; 
How often the kindest and warmest prove 
rovers, 
And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like 
the sea. 

Till, at times — could I help it ? — I pined 
and I ponder'd 
If love could change notes like the birl 
on the tree — 
Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may ha9 
wander'd, 
Enough, thy leal heart has been constant 
to me. 

Welcome from sweeping o'er sea and 
through channel, 
Hardships and danger despising for 
fame, 



MISCELLAiVEOUS POEMS. 



379 



Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, 
Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and 
hame ; 

Enough, now thy story in annals of glory 
Has humbled the pride of France, Hol- 
lanJ, and Spain ; 
No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt 
thou leave me, 
I never will part with my Willie again. 



HUNTING SONG* 

1808. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mountain dawns the day, 

All the jolly chase is here 

With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear ! 

Hounds are in their couples yelling, 

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 

Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mounf-^in gray, 

Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming : 

And foresters hav^ busy been, 

To track the buck in thickets green ; 

Now we come to chant our lay, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
To the green-wood haste away ; 
We can show 3'ou where he lies, 
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks he made 
When, 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd : 
You shall see him brought to bay, 
*' Waken, lords and ladjes gay," 

Louder, louder chant the lay, 

Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, 

Run a course as well as we ; 

Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 

Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk : 

Think of this, and rise with day, 

Gentle lords and ladies gay. 



* Published in the continuation of Strutt's 
curious romance called " Oueenhoo Hall." 
j8o8. 



HEALTH TO LORD MELViLLE.t 

1806. 
A\R— Carrick/erg7ts. 
Since here we are set m array round the 
table, 
Five hundred good fellows well met in a 
hall, 
Come listen, brave boys, and I'll sing as I'm 
able, 
How innocence triumph'd, and pride got 
a fall. 

But push round the claret — 
Come, stewards, don't spare it — 
With rapture you'll drink to the toast that 1 
give : 

Here, boys, 
Off with it merrily — 
Melville forever, and long may he live! 

What were the Whigs doing, when boldly 
pursuing, 
Pitt banish'd Rebellion, gave Treason a 
string i 
Why, they swore on their honor, for Ar- 
thur O'Connor, 
And fought l-.ard for Despard against 
country and king. 

Well, then, we knew, boys, 
Pitt and Melvilli; were true boys, 
And the tempest was raised by the friends 
of Reform. 
Ah, woe ! 

Weep to his memory ; 
Low lies the Pilot that weather*d the storm I 

And pray, don't you mind when the Blues 
first were raisi/.g, 
And we scarcely could think the house 
safe o'er our heads .? 
When villains and coxcombs, French poli- 
tics praising, 
Drove peace from our tables and sleep 
from our beds ? 

Our hearts they grew bolder 
When, musket on shoulder, 
Stepp'd forth our old Statesman example 
to give. 

Come, boys, never fear. 
Drink the Blue Grenadier — 
Here's to old Harry, and long may he live ! 
They would turn us adrift ; though rely, sir, 
upon it — 
Our own faithful chronicles warrant US 
that 

t A Broadside printed at the time of Lonl 
Melville's acquittal. 



38o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The free mountaineer and his bonny blue 
bonnet 
Have oft gone as far as the regular's hat. 
We laugh at their taunting, 
For all we are wanting 
Is license our life for our country to give. 
Off with it merrily, 
Horse, foot, and artillery, 
Each loyal Volunteer, long may he live I 

'Tis not us alone, boys — the Army and 
Navy 
Have each got a slap 'mid their politic 
pranks ; 
CORNWALLis cashier'd, that watch'd win- 
ters to save ye, 
And the Cape call'd a bauble, unworthy 
of thanks. 

But vain is their taunt ; 
No soldier shall want 
The thanks that his country to valor can 
give ; 

Come, boys, 
Drink it off merrily, — 
Sir David and Popham, and long may 
they livel 

And then our revenue — Lord knows how 
they view'd it, 
While each petty statesman talked lofty 
and big ; 
But the beer-tax was weak, as if Whitbread 
had brew'd it. 
And the pig-iron duty a shame to a pig. 
In vain is their vaunting ; 
Too surely there's wanting 
What judgment, experience, and steadiness 
give: 

Come, boys, 
Drink it off merrily, — 
Health to sage Melville, and long may 
he live ! 

Our King, too — our princess — I dare not 
say more, sir, — 
May Providence watch them with mercy 
and might ! 
While there's one Scottish hand that can 
wag a claymore, sir, 
They shall ne'er want a friend to stand up 
'or their right. 

Be damn'dhe that dare not, — 
For my part, I'll spare not 
To beauty afflicted a tribute to give : 
Fill it up steadily, 
Drink it off readily— 
Here's to the Princess, and long may she 
Uvet 



And since we must not set Auld Reekie in 
glory, 
And miike her brown visage as light as 
her heart ; * 
Till each man illumme his own upper story, 
Nor law-book nor lawyer shall force us to 
part. 

In Grenville and Spencer, 
And some few good men, sir. 
High talents we honor, slight dilTerense 
forgive ; 

But the Brewer we'll hoax, 
Tallyho to the Fox, 
And drink Melville forever, as long as 
we live 1 



EPITAPH. 



Designed for a monument in Lichfield 

Cathedral^ at the burial-place of the family 

of Miss Seward 

Amid these aisles, where once his precepts 
show'd 

The Heavenward pathway which in life he 
trod, 

This simple tablet marks a Father's bier, 

And those he loved in life, in death are 
near ; 

For him, for them, a Daughter bade it rise, 

Memorial of domestic charities. 

Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the mar- 
ble spread, 

In female grace the willow droops her head; 

Why on her branches, silent and unstrung, 

The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; 

What poet's voice is smothered here in dust, 

Till waked to join the chorus of the 
just, — 

Lo ! one brief line an answer sad supplies, 

Honor'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here Sew- 
ard lies, 

Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friend- 
ship say, — 

Go seek her genius in her living lay. 

THE RESOLVE. 

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH 
POEM. 

Published in the " Edinburgh Annual 
Register." 
1808. 
My wayward fate I needs must plain, 
Though bootless be the theme-. 



* The Edinburgh magistrates refused to per* 
mit illuminations. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



381 



I loved, and was beloved again, 

Yet all was but a di-eam ; 
For, y.3 her love was quickly got, 

So it was quickly gone ; 
No more Y\\ bask in flame so hot, 

But coldly dwell alone. 
Not maid more bright than maid was e'er 

My fancy shall beguile, 
By flattering word or feigned tear, 

By gesture, look, or smile : 
Ho more I'll call the shaft fair shot, 

Till It has fanly flown, 
Nor scorch me at a flame so hot ; — 

I'll rather freeze alone. 
Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy, 

In c'aeek, or chin, or brow, 
And deem the glance of woman's eye 

As weak as woman's vow : 
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart. 

That is but lightly won ; 
I'll steel my breast to beauty's art, 

And learn to live alone. 
The flaunting torch soon blazes out, 

The diamond's ray abides ; 
The flame its glory hurls about, 

The gem its lustre hides ; 
Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine. 

And gjow'd a diamond stone. 
But, since each eye may see it shine, 

I'll darkling dwell alone. 

No waking dream shall tinge my thought 

With eyes so bright and vain ; 
No silken net, so slightly wrought, 

Shall tangle me again : 
No more I'll pay so dear for wit, 

I'fl live upon mine own ; 
Nor shall wild passion trouble it, — 

I'll rather dwell alone. 
And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,—' 

" Thy loving labor's lost ; 
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest. 

To be so strangely crost : 
^The widow'd turtles mateless die, 

The phoenix is but one ; 
They seek no loves — no more will I— 

I'll rather dwell alone." 



PROLOGUE 

TO MISS BAILLIK's PLAY OF THE 

FAMILY LEGEND. 

1809. 

'Tis sweet to I. ear expiring Summer's sigh, 
Through forests tinged with russet, wail 
and die \ 



'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear 
Of distant music, dying on the ear ; ' 
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign slran( ., 
We hst the legends of our native land, 
Link'd as they come with every tender tif , 
Memorials dear of youth and infancy, 

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caled^/i, 
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy 

son. 
Whether on I;^dia's burning coasts hi toil. 
Or till Arcadia's winter-fetter'd soi)^ 
He hears with throbbing heart and 

moisten'd eyes, 
And, as he hears, what dear illur-lons rise ! 
It opens on his soul his native dell. 
The woods wild waving, ar.d the water's 

swell ; 
Tradition's theme, the toT«<;r that threats 

the plain, 
The mossy cairn that hie' > tiie hero slain ; 
The cot, beneatli whos(; simple porch were 

told, 
By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old, 
The infant group, that hush'd their sports 

the while. 
And the dear ma»<i who listen'd with a 

smile. 
The wanderer, V/uile the vision warms his 

brain. 
Is denizen of !^^otland once again. 

Are sucl? keen feelings to the crowd 
confine<i, 
And sleep they in the Poet's gifted mind ? 
Oh no ! For She, within whose mighty 

page 
Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and 

rage, 
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, 
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. 
Yourselves shall judge — whoe'er has raised 

the sail 
By Mull's dark coast, has heard this even- 
ing's tale. 
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar. 
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar 
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to- 
night 
Ouf humble stage shall offer to your sight ; 
Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give 
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe 

and live ; 
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve 
The filial token of a daughter's love. 



382 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE POACHER. 

Written in imitation of Crabbe^ and pub- 
Ushed in the Edinburgh Annical Register of 

1809. 

Welcome, grave Stranger, to our green 

retreats, 
Where health with exercise and freedom 

meets ; 
Thrice welcome, Sage, whose philosophic 

plan 
By nature's limits metes the rights of man ! 
Generous as he, who now for freedom 

bawls, 
Now gives full value for true Indian 

shawls ; 
O'er court, o'er custom-house, his shoe who 

flings, 
Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies 

kings ! 
Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind 
Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for man 

kind ; 
Thine eye, applausive, each sly vermin sees. 
That baulk* the snare, yet battens on the 

cheese ? 
Thine ear has heard, with scorn instead of j 

av>re. 
Our buck-skinn'd justices expound the law. 
Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the | 

pain, I 

And for the netted partridge noose the | 

swain ? | 

And thy vindictive arm would fain have I 

broke 
The iast light fetter of the feudal yoke, 
To give the denizens of wood and wild, 
Nature's free race, to each her free-born 

. child. 
Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief, fair 

London's race 
Mock'd with the boon of one poor Easter 

chase, 
And long'd to send them forth as free as 

when 
Pour'd o'er Chantilly the Parisian train. 
When musket, pistol, blunderbuss, com- 
bined, 
And scarce the field-pieces were left be- 
hind ! 
A squadron's charge each leveret's heart 

dismay'd. 
On every covey fired a bold brigade ', 
La Dotice Humanite approved the sport. 
For great the alann indeed, yet small the 

hurl ; 



Shouts patriotic solemnized the day. 
And Seme re-echo'd Vive la Liberte / 
But mad Citoyen, meek Monsieur again, 
With some few added Imks resumes his 

chain. 
Then, since such scenes to France no more 

are known, 
Come, view with me a hero of thine own I 
One, whose free actions vindicate the cause 
Of sylvan liberty o'er feudal laws. 

Seek we our glades, where the proud 

oak o'ertops 
Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel copse, 
Leaving between deserted isles of land, 
Where stunted heath is patch'd with -ruddy 

sand , 
And lonely on the waste the yew is seen. 
Or straggling hollies spread a brighter green. 
Here, little worn, and winding dark and 

steep, 
Our scarce mark'd path descends yon dingle 

deep : 
Follow — but heedful, cautious of a trip, — • 
In earthly mire philosophy may slip. 
Step slow and wary o'er that swampy 

stream. 
Till, guided by the charcoal's smothering 

steam, 
W'e reach the frail yet barricaded door 
Of hovel form'd for poorest of the poor ; 
No hearth the fire, no vent the smoke re- 
ceives. 
The walls are wattles, and the covering 

leaves ; 
For, if such hut, our forest statutes say. 
Rise in the progress of one night and day 
(Though placed where still the Conqueror's 

bests o'erawe. 
And his son's stirrup shines the badge of 

law), 
The builder claims the unenviable boon, 
To tenant dwelling, framed as slight and 

soon 
As wigwam wild, that shrouds the native frore 
On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd Labrador.* 

Approach, and through the unlatticed 
window peep — 

Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep; 

Sunk mid }fon sordid blankets, till the sun 

Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are 
done. * 

Loaded and primed, and prompt for des- 
perate hand, 

* The New Forest is now disforested, aod 
its laws, &c., become a thing of the past 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



%^Z 



Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand ; 
While rocmd the hut are in disorder laid 
The tools and booty of his lawless trade ; 
'For torce or fraud, resistance or escape, 
The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the 

crape. 
His pilfer'd powder in yon nook he hoards, 
And the filch'd lead the church's roof 

affords — 
(Hence shall the rector's congregation fret. 
That while his sermon's dry his walls are 

wet.) 
The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping net are 

there, 
Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins 

of hare, 
Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare. 
Barter'd for game from chase or warren 

won, 
Yon cask holds moonlight* run when 

moon was none ; 
And late-snatch'd spoils he stow'd in hatch 

apart, 
To wait the associate higgler's evening cart. 

Look on his pallet foul, and mark his 

rest: 
What scenes perturb'd are acting in his 

breast ! 
His sable brow is wet and wrung with pain. 
And his dilated nostril toils in vain ; 
For short and scant the breath each effort 

draws, 
And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a 

pause. 
Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth 

stretch'd, 
His sinewy' throat seems by convulsion 

twitch'd. 
While the tongue falters, as to utterance 

loth, 
Sounds of dire import — watchword, threat, 

and oath. 
Though, stupefied by toil, and drugg'd 

with gin, 
The body sleep, the restless guest within 
Now plies on wood and wold his lawless 

trade. 
Now in the fangs of justice wakes dis- 

may'd. — 

" Was that wild start of terror and de- 

« spair 
Those^ bursting eyeballs, and that wilder'd 

air, 
Signs of compunction for a murder'd hare ? 

• A cant term for smuggled spirits. 



Do the locks bristle and the e^^>}fO\^^ arch, 
For grouse or partridge massacred in 
March ? " 

No, scoffer, no I Attend, and mark with 

awe, 
There is no wicket in the gate of lav/ ! 
He, that would e'er so lightly set ajar 
That av/ful portal, must undo each bar : 
Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride, 
Will join to storm the breach, and force the 

barrier wide. 

That ruffian, whom true men avoid and 

dread. 
Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call 

Black Ned, 
Was Edv/ard Mansell once;7-the lightest 

heart 
That ever play'd on holiday his part ! 
The leader he in every Chrislmas game, 
The harvest-feast grew blither when he 

came, 
And liveliest orv the chords fhe bow did 

glance, 
When Edward named the tune and led the 

dance. 
Kind was his heart, his pasr'ons quick and 

strong, 
Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song ; 
And if he loved a gun, his father swore, 
'"Twas but a trick of youth would soon be 

o'er. 
Himself had done the same some thirty 

years before." 

But he whose humors spurn law's awful 

yoke. 
Must herd with those by whom law's bonds 

are broke. 
The common dread of justice soon allies 
The clown, who robs the warren, or excise, 
With sterner felons train'd to act more 

dread, 
Even with the wretch bv whom his felloW 

bied. 
Then,— as in plagues the foul contagions 

pass. 
Leavening and festering the corrupted 

mass, — 
Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual mo- 
tives draw. 
Their hope impunity, their fear the law , 
Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous 

the same. 
Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfer'd game. 



5^4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Flesh the young culprit, and exan-pple leads 
To darker villany, and direr deeds. 

Wi]d howl'd the wind the forest glades 

along, 
Ap -1 oft the owl renew'd her dismal song ; 
Around the spot where erst he felt the 

wound, 
Red William's spectre walk'd his midnight 

round. 
When o'er the swamp he cast his blighting 

look, 
From the green marshes of the stagnant 

brook 
The bittern's sullen shout the sedges 

shook I 
The waning moon, with storm-presaging 

gleam, 
Now gave, and now withheld her doubtful 

beam ; ^ 
The old Oak stoop'd his arms, then flung 

them high. 
Bellowing and groaning to the troubled 

sky — 
'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brush- 
wood sere. 
In Mai wood-walk young Mansell watch' d 

the deer : 
The fattest buck received his deadly shot — 
The watchful keeper heard, and sought the 

spot. 
Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was 

their strife, 
O'erpower'd at length the Outlaw drew his 

knife ! 
Kext morn a corpse was found upon the 

fell— 
The rest his waKing agony may tell 1 



SONG. 



Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified 
air. 
That your spring-time of pleasure is 
. flown, 
Nor bid me to maids that are younger 
repair, » 

For those raptures that still are thine own. 

Though April his temples may wreathe with 
the vine, 
Its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 
nris the ardor of August matures us the 
wine, 
Whose life-Wood enlivens the world. 



Thougii thy form, that was fashion'd as light 
as a fay's, 
Has assumed a proportion more round. 
And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's 
at gaze. 
Looks soberly now on the ground, — 

Enough, after absence to meet me again, 
Thy steps still with ecstacy move ; 

Enough, that those dear sober glances 
retain 
For me the kind lanc^ua^e of bve. 



THE BOLD DRAGOON; 

OR, THE PLAIN OF BADAJOS. 
3812. 

'TwAs a Mar6chal of France, and he fain 

would honor gain, 
And he long'd to take a passing glance at 
Portugal from Spain ; 
With his tiymg guns this gallant gay, 
And boasted corps d'arm^e — 
O he fear'd not our dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding. 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sat 

down, 
Just a fricassee to pick, while his soldiers 
sack'd the town. 
When, 'twas peste ! morbleu ! mon 

Gen J ral, 
Hear tlxe English bugle-call I 
And behold the light dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

Right about went horse and foot, artillery 

and all. 
And, as the devil leaves a house, they 
tumbled through the wall ; 
They took no time to seek the door. 
But, best foot set before — 
O they ran from our dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de'ral, &c. 
Those valiant men of France they had 

scarcely fled a mile. 
When on their flank there soused at once 
the British rank and file : 
For Long, De Grey and Otway, then 
Ne'er minded one to ten, 
But came on like light dragoons, with theif 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 



MISCELLANEOUS PO.FMS 



?8S 



Three luindred British lads they made three 

thousand reel, 
Their hearts were made of English oak, 
their swords of Sheffield steel, 
Their liorses were in Yorkshire bred, 
And Beresford them led ; 
So huzza for brave dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

Then here's a health to Wellington, to 

Bcrcsford, to Long, 
Knd a single word of Bonaparte before I 
close my song ; 
The eagles that to fight he brings 
Should serve his men with wings, 
When they meet the bold dragoons, 
their long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 



with 



ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. 

1814. 

'• In the beginning of the year 1692, an action 
of unexampled barbarity disgraced the govern- 
ment of King William III. in Scotland. In the 
August preceding, a proclamation had been 
issued offering an indemnity to such insurgents 
as should take the oaths to the King and Queen, 
on or before the last day of December ; and the 
chiefs of such tribes as had been in arms for 
James, soon after took advantage of the procla- 
mation. But Macdonald of Glencoe was. pre- 
vented by accident, rather than by design, from 
tendering his submission within the limited 
time. In the end of December he went to 
Colonel Hill, who commanded the garrison in 
Fort William, to take the oaths of allegiance to 
the government ; and the latter having furnished 
him with a letter to Sir Colin Campbell, sheriff 
of the county of Argyle, directed him to repair 
immediately to Inverary, to make his submis- 
sion in a legal manner before that magistrate. 
But the way to Inverary lay through almost 
impassable mountains, the season was extremely 
rigorous, and the whole country was covered 
with a deep snnw. So eager, however, was 
Macdonald to take the oaths before the limited 
time should expire, that, though the road lay 
within half a mile of his own house, he stopped 
not to visit his family, and, after vari us ob- 
structions, arrived at Inverary. The time had 
elapsed, and the sheriff hesitated o receive his 
submission , but Macdonald prevailed by his im- 
portunities, and even tears, in inducing that 
iunctionary to administer to him the oath of 
allegiance, and to certify the cause of his 
delay. At this tirae Sir John Dalrymple, after- 



wards Earl of Stair, being in attendance upon 
William as Secretary of Slate for Scotlandj 
took advantage (>f Macdonald's neglecting to 
take the oath witiiin the time prescribed, and 
procured from the king a v/arrant of military 
execution against that chief and his whole clan. 
This was done at the instigation of the Earl of 
Breadalbane, whose fands the dencoe men jiad 
plundered, and whose treachery to government 
in negotiating with the Highland clans, Mac- 
donald himself had exposed. The King was 
accordingly persuaded that Glenccfe was tha 
main obstacle to the pacification of the High- 
lands ; and the fact of the unfortunate chief's 
submission having been concealed, the san- 
guinary orders for proceeding to military exe- 
cution against his clan were in consequence 
obtained. The warrant was both signed and 
countersigned by the King's own hand, and 
the Secretary urged the officers who commanded 
in the Highlands to execute their orders with 
the utmost rigor. Campbell of Glenlyon, a 
captain in Argyle's regiment, and two subal- 
terns, were ordered to repair to Glencoe on the 
first of February with a hundred and twenty 
men. Campbell, being uncle to young Mac- 
donald's wife, was received by the father with 
all manner of friendship and hospitality. The 
men were lodged at free quarters in the houses 
of his tenants, and received the kindest enter- 
tainment. Till the 13th of the month the 
troops lived in the utmost harmony and famili- 
arity with the peop.'e ; and on the very night 
of the massacre the officers passed the evening 
at cards in Macdonald's house. In the night, 
Lieutenant Lindsay, with a party of soldiers, 
called in a friendly manner at his door, and 
was instantly admitted. Macdona'd, while in 
tlie act of rising to receive his guest, was shot 
dead through the back with two buiiets, His 
wife had alieady dressed ; but she was stripped 
naked by the soldiers, who tore the rings off 
her fingers with their teeth. The slaughter 
now becam.e general, and neither age nor in- 
firmity was spared. Some women, in defend- 
ing their children, were killed ; boys imploring 
mercy were shot dead by officers on whose 
knees they hung. In one place nine persons, 
as they sat enjoying themselves at table, were 
butcheied by the soldiers. In Inverriggon, 
Campbell's own quarters, nine men were first 
bound by the soldiers, and then shot at intervals 
one by one. Nearly forty persons were mas- 
sacred' by the troops ; ai.d several who fled to 
the mountains perished by famine and the 
inclemency of the season. Those who escaped 
owed their lives to a tempestuous night. Lieu- 
tenant Colonel Hamilton, who had received the 
charge of the execution from Dalrymple, was on . 
his march with four hutid.ed men, to guard all 
the passes from the valley of Glencoe ; but he was 
obliged to stop by the severity of the weather, 
which proved the safety of the unfortunate 
clan. Next day he entered the valley, laid the 
houses ia ashes, and earned ai^y the cattle 



386 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



and spoil, v/hich were divided among the 
officers and soldiers."- '^/•z'/.r/e' "Britain;" 
Kncyc. Britaunica. — New Ediiio7t, 

'• TELL me, Harper, wherefore flow 
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe, 
Far down the desert of Glencoe, 

Where none may list their melody ? 
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly. 
Or to the dun-deer glancing by, 
Or to the eagle, that from liigh 

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy ? "— 

" No, not to these, for they have rest, — 
Tne mist-wreath has tiie mountain-crest 
The stag his lair, the erne her nest, 

Abode of lone security. 
But those for whom 1 pour the lay, 
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain gray, 
Not this deep dell, that shrouds from day, 

Could screen from treach'rous cruelty. 

'• Their flag was furl'd, and mute their 

drum, 
The very household dogs were dumb, 
Unwont to bay at guests that come 

I:i guise of hospitality 
His blithest notes the piper plied, 
Her gayest snood the maiden tied, 
The dame her distaff flung aside, 

To tend her kindly housewifery. 

" The hand that mingled m the meal, 
At midnight drew the felon steel. 
And gave the host's kind breast to feel 

Meed for his hospitality ! 
The friendly hearth which warm'd that 

hand, 
At midnight arm'd it with the brand, 
That bade destruction's flames expand 

Their red and fearful blazonry. 

♦' Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, 

Nor infancy's unpitied plain, 

More than the warrior's groan, could gam 

Respite from ruthless butchery ! 
The winter wind that whistled shrill. 
The snows that night that cloked the hill, 
jThough wild and pitiless, had still 

Far more than Southern clemency. 

■"Long have my harp's best notes been 

gone. 
Few are its strings, and faint their tone, 
Tlisy can but sound in desert lone 

Their gray-hair'd master's misery. 

Were each gray hair a minstrel string, 

Each chord should imprecations fling, 

Till startled Scotland loud should ring, 

* Revenge for blood and treachery 1 * '* 



FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT. 

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE, 
1814. 

Though right be aft put down by strength. 

As mony a day we saw that. 
The true and leilfu' cause at length 

Shall bear the grie for a' that. 
For a' that an' a' that, 

Guns, guillotines, and a' that, 
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right, 

Is queen again for a' that ! 

We'll twine her in a friendly knot 

With England's Rose, and a' that; 
The Shamrock shall not be forgot, 

For Wellington made braw that. 
The Thistle, though her leaf be rude, 

Yet faith we'll no misca' that, 
She shelter'd in her solitude 

The Fleur-de-hs, for a' that. 

The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine 

(For Blucher's sake, hurra that), 
The Spanish Oiive, too, shall join. 

And bloom in peace for a' that. 
Stout Russia's Hemp, so surely twined 

Around our wreath we'll draw that, 
And he that would the cord unbind, 

Shall have it for his cra-vat ! 

Or, it to choke sae puir a sot. 

Your pity scorn to thraw that. 
The Devil's elbow be his lot. 

Where he may sit and claw that. 
In spite of slight, in spite of might, 

In spite of brags, an' a' that, 
The lads that battled for the right, 

Have won the day, an' a' that I 

There's ae bit spot I had forgot, 

America they ca' that ; 
A coward plot her rats had got 

Their father's flag to knaw that \ 
Now see it fly top-gallant high, 

Atlantic winds shall blav/ that. 
And Yankee loon, beware your croun, 

There's kames in hand to claw that 1 

For on the land, or on the sea. 
Where'er the Liee:-3s blaw that. 

The British flag shall bear the grie^ 
A.nd win the day for a' that 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



387 



SONG, 



rOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF 
THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND. 

1 814. 

0, DREAD was tlie time, and more dreadful 
the omen, 
When the brave on Marengo lay 
slaughter'd in vain. 
And beholding broad Europe bow'd down 
by her foemen, 
Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her 
reign ! 
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend 
his brave spirit 
To take for his country the safety of 
shame ; 
O, then in her triumph remem' er iiis 
merit, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to his 
name. 

Round the husbandman's head, while he 
traces the furrow, 
The mists of the winter may mingle with 
rain. 
He may plough it with labor, and sow it in 
sorrow, 
And sigh while he fears he lias sow'd it 
in vain ; 
He may die ere his children shall reap in 
their gladness. 
But the blithe harvest-home shall re- 
member his claim ; 
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd 
with sadness, 
While they hallow the goblet that flows 
to his name. 

Though anxious and timeless his life was 

expended, 
In toils for our country preserved by his 

care, 
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations 

ascended; 
To light the long darkness of doubt and 

despair ; 
The stoMiis he endured in our Britain's 

December, 
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'er- 

came. 
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain 

remember, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to his 

name. "" 



Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark in 
affliction, 
Is deaf to the tales of our victories v/on. 
And to sounds the most dear to paternal 
affection, 
The shout of his people applauding his 
Son; 
By his firmness unmoved in success and 
disaster. 
By his long reign of virtue, remember his 
claim ! 
With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of 
his Master, 
Tliough a tear stain the goblet that flows 
to his name. 

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the 
sad measure, 
The rites of our grief and our gratitude 
paid, 
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the 
bright treasure, 
The vv'isdom that plann'd, and the zea5 
that obey' d; 
Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like 
his glory. 
Forget not our own brave Dalhousie 
and Gr/eme ; 
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound 
at their story, 
And liallow the goblet that flows to their 
fame. 

. ^ 

LINES, 

addressed TO RANALD MACDONALD, 
ESQ., OF STAFFA.* 

1S14. 

Staffa, sprung from high Macdonald, 
Worthy branch of old Clan-Ranald ! 
Staffa ! king of all kind fellows ! 
Well befall thy hills and valleys, 
Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows 
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder. 
Echoing the Atlantic thunder ; 
Mountains which the gray mist covers, 
Where the Chieftain spirit hovers, 



* Afterwards Sir Reginald Macdonald Stewart 
Seton, ofStatfa, Allanton, and Toucli, Baronet. 
He died 16th April, 1838, m his 6ist year. The 
reader will find a warm tribute to Staffa's 
character as a Highland landlord, m Scott's 
article on Sir John Carr's Caledonian S'lietcheSi 
"^MisceUaneotis Prone IVorks, vol. Six. 



9X>S 



SCO TT'S POE TIC A L WOR KS. 



Pausing while his pinions quiver, 
Stretch'd to quit our land forever ! 
Each kind influence reign above thee I 
Warmer heart 'twixt this and Staffa, 
Beats not, than in heart of Staffa! 



PHAROS LOQUITUR.* 

Far in the bosom of the deep, 

O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep; 

A ruddy gem of changeful light, 

Bound on the dusky brow of riight. 

The seaman bids my lustre haij, 

And scorns to strike his timorous sail. 



LETTER IN VERSE 

ON THE VOYAGE WITH THE COMMIS- 
SIONERS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS 

*' Of the letters which Scott wrote to liis 
friends during tliose happy six weeks, I have 
recovered only one, and it is, thanks to the 
leisure of the yacht, in verse. The strong 
and easy heroics of the first section prove, I 
thuik, that Mr. Canning did not err when lie 
told him that if he chose he might emulate 
even Dryden's command of that noble measure ; 
and the dancing anapssts of the second, 
show that he could with equal facility have 
rivalled the gay graces of Cotton, Anstey, or 
"^looxz." —Lockhart, Life, vol. iv., p. 372. 



TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, 
&C. &C. &C. 

Lighthouse Yacht, in the Sound of Lerwick, 
Zetland, 8th August, 1814. 

Health to the chieftain from his clans- 
man true ! 
From her true minstrel, health to fair Buc- 
cleuch ! 



* " On the 30th of July, 1814, Mr. Hamilton, 
Mr. Eiskine, and Mr. Duff, Commissioners, 
along with Mr (now Sir) Walter Scott, and 
the writer, visited the Lighthouse ; the Com- 
missioners being then on one of their voyages 
of Inspection, noticed in the Introduction. 
They breakfasted m the Library, when Sir 
Walter, at the entreaty of the party, upon in- 
scribing his name in the Album, added these 
interesting lines." — Stevenson's Account of 
the Bell-Rock L\^hthoiise. 1824- Scott's Diary 
of the Voyage is now published in the 4th 
volume of his Life. 



Health from the isles, where dewy Morning 

weaves 
Her chaplet with the tints that Twilight 

leaves ; 
Where late the sun scarce vanish'd from the 

sight. 
And his bright pathway graced the short-lived 

night, 
Though darker now as autumn's 'shades 

extend. 
The north winds whistle and the mists 

ascend ! 
Health from the land where eddymg whirl- 
winds toss 
The storm-rock'd cradle of the Cape of Noss ! 
On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine slides. 
His own strong arm the bold adventurer 

guides, 
And he that hsts such desperate feat to try, 
May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt earth and 

sky, 
And feel the mid-air gales around him blow. 
And see the billows rage five hundred feet 

below. 
Here, by each stormy peak and desert 

shore, 
The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar. 
Practiced alike his venturous course to keep, 
Through the white breakers or the pathless 

deep, 
By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain 
A wretched pittance from tbe niggard'main. 
And when the worn-out drudge old ocean 

leaves, (ceives? 

What comfort greets him, and what hut re- 
Lady ! the worst your presence ere has 

cheer'd 
(When want and sorrow fled as you ap- 

pear'd) 
Were to a Zetlander as the high dome 
Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home. 
Here rise no groves, and here no gardens 

blow, 
Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to 

grow ; 
But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm 

array'd, 
Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade, 
With many a cavern seam'd, the dreary 

haunt 
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant. 
Wild round their rifted brows, witli frequent 

cry , ' 

As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly. 
And from their sable base, with sullen soimd, 
In sheets of whitening foam the waves 

rebound. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



389 



Yet 3ven these coasts a touch of envy gam 
From those whose /and has known oppres- 
sion's chain , 
For here the Industrious Dutchman comes 

once more 
To moor his fishing craft by Bressey's shore , 

Greets everv former mate and brother tar, 
Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of war, 
Tells manv a tale of Gallic outrage done. 
And ends by blessing God and Wellington, 
Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest, 
Claniis a brief hour of riot, not of rest : 
Proves each wild frohcthatin wine has birth. 
And wakes the laud with brawls and bolster 

ous mirth. 
A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow 
The captive Norseman sits in silent woe, 
And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow. 
Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors 

sway 
His destined course, and seize so mean a 

prey ; 
A bark with planks so vvarp'd and seams so 

riven. 
She scarce might face the gentlest air of 

heaven ; 
Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none 
Can list his speech, and understand his 

moan ; 
In vain — no Islesman now can use the tongue 
Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage 

spring. 
Not thus of old the Norseman hither came, 
Won by the love of danger or of fame ; 
On every storm-beat cape a shapeless tower 
Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their 

power ; 
For ne'er for Grecia's vales, or Latain land, 
Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand ; 
A race severe — the isle and ocean lords 
Loved for its own delight the strife of swords ; 
With scornffil laugh the mortal pang defied. 
And blest their gods that they in battle died. 
Such were the series of Zetland's simple 

race. 
And still the eye may faint resemblance 

trace 
In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair, 
The limbs athletic, and the long light hair — 
(Such w.is the mien, as Scald and Minstrel 

sings, 
Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's 

Kings) ; 
But their high deeds to scale these crags 

confined, 
Their only warfare is with waves and wind. 



Why should I talk of Mousa's castled 

coast .? 
Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost \ 
May not these bald disjointed lines suffice, 
Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling 

dice — 
While down the cabin skylight lessening 

shine 
The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and 

wine ? 
Imagined, while down Mousa's desert bay 
Our well trimm'd vessel urged her nimbly 

way, 
While to the freshening breeze she lean'd 

her side, 
And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide ? 

Such are the lays that Zetland isles supply; 
Drench'd with the drizzly spray and dropping 

sky. 
Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I 

POSTSCRIPTUM. 
Kirkwall, Orkney, Aug. 13, 1814. 

In respect that your Grace has commission'd 

a Kraken, 
You will please be inform'd that they seldom 

are taken ; 
It is January two years, the Zetland folks 

say, 
Since they saw the last Kraken in Scalloway 

baj; ; 
He lay in the offing a fortnight or more. 
But the devil a Zetlander put from the shore, 
Though bold in the seas of the North to 

assail 
The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus 

and whale. 
If your Grace thinks I'm writing the thing 

that is not. 
You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. 

Scott— 
(He's not from our clan, though his merits 

deserve it, 
But springs I'm inform'd, from the Scotts 

of Scotstarvet) ; * 
He question'd the folks who beheld it with 

eyes, j 

But they differ'd confoundedly as to the size. 
For instance, the modest and diffident swore 
That it seem'd like the keel of a ship, and no 

more — 

* The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families 
of the same m Fife and elsewhere, claim no 
kindred with the great clan of the Rorder— and 
their armorial bearings are different. 



39<=> 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy 

more high, 
Said it rose liRe an island 'twixt ocean and 

sky — 
But all of the hulk had a steady opinion 
That 'twas sure a hve subject of Neptune's 

dominion — 
And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace 

hardly would wish, 
To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish. 
Had your order related to night-caps or hose, 
Or mittens of worsted, there'splenty of those. 
Or would you be pleased but to fancy a 

whale P 
And direct me to send it — by sea or by mail .'' 
The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still 
I could get you one fit for the lake at Bow- 
hill. 
Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to be 

thrifty, 
Since one day last fortnight two hundred and 

fifty, 
Pm-sued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no 

more, 
Betwixt TruJfness and Luffness were drawn 

on the shore ! 
You'd ask if I saw this same wonderful sight ; 
I own that I did not, but easily might — 
For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay 
On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the 

bay, 
And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the 

spoil. [boil ; 

Arxdi Jlhiching, (so term it) the blubber to 
(Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection 
That awakes at the thought of this odorous 

dissection.) 
To see this huge marvel full fain would we 

go, 
But Wilson, the wind, and the current, said 

no. 
We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I 

must stare 
When I think that in verse I have once call'd 

lifair ; 
Tis a base little borough, both dirty and 

mean — 
There's nothing to hear, and there's nought 

to be seen. 
Save a church, where, of old times, a prelate 

harangued, 
And a palace that's built by an earl that was 

hang'd. 
But, farewell to Kirkwall— aboard we are 

going, 
The anchor's a-peak, and the breezes are 
blowing : 



Our commodore calls all his band to their 

places, 
And 'tis time to release you— good night to 
your Graces ! 



itrs.es from Mav^rUjr, 
1814 

" The following song, which has been sine* 
borrowed by tlie worshipful author of the 
famous ' History of Fryar Bacon,' has been 
witli difficulty deciphered. It seems to have 
been sung on occasions of carrying home the 
bride." 

(t.)-BRIDAL SONG. 

To the time of'''' I have been a Fiddler^' (S'C. 

And did ye not hear of a mirth befell 
The morrow after a wedding day. 

And carrying a bride at home to dwell 1 
And away to Tewin, away, away. 

The quintain was set, and the garlands were 
made, 

'Tis pity old customs should ever decay ; 
And woe be to him that was horsed on a jade, 

For he carried no credit away, away. 

We met a concert of fiddle-de-dees , 

We set them a-cockhorse, and made them 
. play 

The winning of Bullen, and Upsey-frees, 
And away to Tewin, away, away 1 

There was ne'er a lad in all the parish 
That would go to the plough that day ; 

But on his fore-horse his wench he carries, 
And away to Tewin, away, away I 

The butler was quick, and the ale he did tan. 
The maidens did make the chamber fuii 
gay ; 

The servants did give me a fuddling cup, 
And I did carry't away, away. 

The smith of the town his liquor so took. 
That he was persuaded that the ground 
louk'd blue ; 

And I dare boldly be sworn on a book, 
Such smith as he there's but a few. 

A posset was made, and the women did sip. 
And simpering said, they could eat no more ; 

Full many a maiden was laid o the lip.— 
I'll say no more, but give o'er (give o'er). 
Appendix to the General Preface. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



391 



^ongs au^ |]o£m? from Maurrkg. 

" On receiving inteHigence of his commis- 
sion as captain of a troop of horse in Colonel 
Gardiner's reigment, his tutor, Mr. Pembroke, 
picked ujD about Edward's roons some fragments 
of irregular verse, which he appeared to iiave 
composed under the influence of the agitating 
feeiip.gs occasioned by this sudden page being 
♦ urnedupto him in the book of life." — Waver- 
ley, chap. v. 

Late, when th'' autumn evening fell 
On Mirkwood Mere's romantic dell. 
The lake return'd m chasten'd gleam, 
The purple cloud, the golden beam ■ 
Reflected m the crystal pool, 
Headland and bank lay fair and cool ; 
The weather-tmted rock and tower, 
Each drooping tree, each fairy flower, 
So true, fco soft, tlie mirror gave, 
As if there lay beneatli the wave. 
Secure from trouble, toil, and care, 
A world than earthly world more fair. 

But distant winds began to wake, 
And roused the Genius of the Lake ! 
He heard the groaning of the oak. 
And donn'd at" once his sable cloak, 
As warrior, at the battle cry, 
Invests him with his panoply; 
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd, 
He 'gan to shake his foamy crest, 
O'er furrow'd brow and black en'd cheek, 
And bade his surge m thunder speak. 
In wild and broken eddies whirl'd, 
Flitted that fond ideal world ; 
And, to the shore in tumult tost, 
The realms of fairy bliss were lost. 

Yet, with a stern delight and strange, 
I saw the spirit-stirring change. 
As warr'd the wind with wave and wood, 
Upon the ruin'd tower I stood. 
And felt my heart more strongly boimd, 
Responsive to the lofty sound, 
While, joying in the mighty roar, 
I mourn' d that tranquil scene no more. 

So, on the idle dreams of youth 
Breaks the loud trumpet call of truth, 
Bids each fair vision pass away, 
Like landscape on the lake that lay, 
As fair, as flitting, and as frail, 
As that which fled the autumn gale — 
Forever dead to fancy's eye 
Be each gay form that glided by, 
While dreams of love and lady's charms 
Give place to honor and to arms 1 



DAVIE GELLATLEY'S SONGS. 

•' He (Daft Davie Gellatley) sung with great 
earnestness, and not w.thout ^ome taste, a 
fragment of an old Scotch duty : " 

False love, and hast thou play'd me this 

In summer among the flowers ? 
I will repay thee back again 

In winter among the showers. 
Unless again, again, my love, 

Unless you turn again ; 
As you with other maidens rove, 

ril smile on otlicr men. 

The Knight's to the mountain 

His bugle to wind : 
The Lady's to greenwood 

Her garland to bind 
The bower of Burd Ellen 

Has moss on the floor, 
That the st^p of Lord William 

Be silent and sure. — Chap. ix. 

" The stamping of horses was now heard in 

the court, and Davie Gellatley's voice singing 
to the two large deer grayhounds." 

Hie away, hie away. 
Over bank and over brae. 
Where the copsewood is the greenest, 
Where the fountains glisten sheenest, 
Where the lady-fern grows strongest, 
Where the morning dew lies longest, 
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it, 
Where the fairy latest trips it : 
Hie to haunts right seldom seen. 
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, 
Over bank and over brae. 
Hie away, hie away. — CJiap. xii. 

Young men will love thee more fair and 
more fast ; 
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing ? 
Old men's love the longest will last. 
And the throstle cock's head is under his 
wiug. 
The young man's wrath is like light straw 
on fire ; 
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing"^ 
But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire, 
And the throstle-cock' s head is under hi. 
■wing. 
The young man may brawl at the evening 
board ; 
Heard ye so merry the tittle bird sing ? 
But the old man will draw at the dawning 
the sword. 
And the throstle-cock's head is under hil 
I wing. — Chap. xiv. 



395' 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ST SWiTHIN'S CHAIR. 

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to 

rest 
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd ; 
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead, 
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed. 

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag 

will ride 
(^nd all her nine-fold sweeping on by her 

side, 
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud, 
SaiHng through moonshine or swathed in 

the cloud. 

The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair, 
The dew of the night has damp'd her hair : 
Her cheek was pale — but resolved and high 
Was the word of her lip and the glance of 
her eye. 

She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold, 
When his naked foot traced the midnight 

wold, 
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the 

night, 
And bade her descend, and her promise 

plight. 

He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair, 
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled 

air. 
Questions three, when he speaks the spell, 
He may ask, and she must tell. 

The Baron has been with King Robert his 

liege 
These three long years \n battle and siege ; 
News are there none of his weal or his woe, 
And fam the Lady his fate would know. 

She shudders and stops as the charm she 

speaks :— 
Is it the moody owl that shrieks .' 
Or IS that sound, betwixt laughter and 

scream, 
The voice of the Demon who haunts the 

stream .'' 

The moan of the wind sunk silent and low, 
And the roarmg torrent had ceased to flow ; 
The calm was inore dreadful than raging 

storm. 
When the cold gray mist brought the ghastly 

form 1 



Chap, xiiL 



FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG. 

There is mist on the mountain, and night 

on the vale, 
But more dark is the sleep of the sons oi 

the Gael, 
A stranger commanded — it sunk on th« 

land. 
It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd 

every hand ! 

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, 
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd 

with rust ; 
On the hill or the glen if a gun should ap« 

_ pear. 
It is only to war with the heath-cock or 

deer. 

The deeds of our sires if our bards should 

rehearse. 
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their 

verse ! 
Be mute every string, and be hush'd every 

tone, 
That shall bid us remember the fame that 

is flown. 

But the dark hours of night and of slumber 

are past. 
The morn on our mountains is dawning at 

last ! 
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the 

rays, 
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright 

In the blaze. 

O high-minded Moray! — the exiled — the 
dear ! — 

In the blush of the dawning the Standard 
uprear 1 

Wide, wide on the winds of the north let 
it fly, 

Like the sun's latest flash when the tem- 
pest is nigh 1 

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning 
shall break, 

Need the harp of the aged remind you to 
wake ? 

That dawn never beam'd on your fore- 
father's eye, 

But it roused each high chieftain to van- 
quish or die. 

sprung from the Kings who in Islay 

kept state, 
Proud chiefs of Clan- Ranald, Glengary, and 

Sleatl 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



393 



Combir.e like three streams from one 

mountain of snow, 
And resistless in union rush down on the 

foe. 
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, 
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish 

th.y steel ! 
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's 

"bold swell, 
Till far Coryarrich resound to the knell ! 

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of 
Kintail, 

Let the stag m thy standard bound wild in 
the gale ! 

May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless 
and free, 

Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dun- 
dee 1 

Let the clan of Gray Fingon, whose off- 
spring has given 

Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to 
heaven, 

Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri 
More, 

To launch the long galley aijd stretch to 
the oar ! 

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief 

shall display 
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of 

gray ! 
How tlie race of wrong'd Alpine and 

murder'd Glencoe 
Shall shout for revenge when they pour 

on the foe ! 

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the 

wild boar, 
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum- 

More! 
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the 

Lake, 
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance 

awake ! 

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake ! 
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and 

the lake ! 
•Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the 

call; 
*Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but' not 

to the hall. 

*Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or 
death, 

When the banners are blazing on moun- 
tain iukd heath ; 



They call to the dirk, the claymore, and 

the targe, 
To the march and the muster, the line ^nd 

the charge. 
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in 

his ire ! 
May the blood through his veins flow like 

currents of fire ! 
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires 

did of yore ! 
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no 

more ! — Chap. xxii. 



TO AN OAK TREE, 



In the Churchyard of • 



■ , in the High- 



lands of Scotland, said to 7nark the grave 

of Captain IVogan, billed iji i6^g. 
EiiiBLEM of England's ancient faith, 

Full proudly may thy branches wave, 
Where loyalty lies low in death, 

And valor fills a timeless grave. 

And thou, brave tenant of the tomb I 

Repine not if our clime deny, 
Above thine honor'd sod to bloom. 

The flowrets of a milder sky. 

These owe their birth to genial May ; 

Beneatli a fiercer sun they pine. 
Before the winter storm decay— 

And can their worth be type of thine? 
No ! for 'mid storms of Fate opposing, 

Still higher swell'd thy dauntless heart, 
And while Despair the scene was closing. 

Commenced thy brief but brilliant part. 

'Twas then thou sought'st on Albyn's hill 

(When England's sons the strife re* 
sign'd), 
A rugged race resisting still, 

And unsubdued though unrefined. 
Thy death's hour heard no kindred wail. 

No holy knell thy requiem rung ! 
Thy mourners were the plaided Gael, 

Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung. 
Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine 

To waste life's longest term away, 
Would change tliat glorious dawn of thine, 

Though darken'd ere its noontide day? 
Be thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs 

Brave summer's drought and winter's 
gloom ! 
Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows. 

As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb. ^ 

CAa/, Kxix* 



394 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, 

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL. 

From the Gaelic. 

1815. 

The original verses are arranged to a beauti- 
ful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted 
to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, 
and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary 
jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed 
by the Family Bard upon the departure of the 
Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take 
refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at 
insurrection in favor of the Stuart family, in 
the year 1718. 

Farewell to Mackenneth, great Earl of 

the North, 
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and 

Seaforth ; 
To the Chieftain this morning his course 

who began, 
Launching forth on the billows his b2.rk 

like a swan. 
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his 

,sail : 
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail ! 

O swift be the galley, and hardy her crcTv. 
May her captain be skilful, her mariners 

true, 
in danger undaunted, unwearied by toil, 
Tliough the whirlwind should rise, and the 

ocean should boil : 
On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his 

bona:!,* 
And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail 1 

Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet south- 
land gale ! 

Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft 
on his sail ; 

Be prolong'd as regret, that his vassals 
must know. 

Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their 
woe : 

Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, 
sweet gale, 

Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of 
Kintail I 

Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and 

wise, 
^ To measure the seas and to study the skies ■ 

* BonaiJ, or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase 
for a feast at parting with a friend. 



May he hoist all his canvas irom streamer 

to deck. 
But O ! crowd it higher when wafting him 

back — 
Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's 

glad vale. 
Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief ol 

Kintail ! 



WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN 

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN. 

From the Gaelic. 

1815. 

This song appears to be imperfect, or, at 
least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, 
makes a rapid transition from one subject to 
another i from the situation, namely, of one 
of the daughters of the clan, who opens the 
song by lamenting ihe absence of her lover, to 
an eulogium over the military glories of Ihe 
Chieftain. The translator has endeavored to 
imitate the abrupt style of the original. 

A WEARY month has wander'd o'er 

Since last we parted on the shore ; 

Heaven • that I saw thee, Love, once more, 

Safe on that sliore again ! — 
Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word: 
Lachian, of many a galley lord: 
He cal|'d his kindred bands on board,. 

And launch'd them on the main. 

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone, 
Clan-Gilhan, fierce in foray known; 
Rejoicing in the glory won 

In many a bloody broil : 
For wide is heard the thundering fray, 
The rout, the ruin, the dismay, 
When from the twilight glens away 

Clan-Gilhan drives the spoil. 

Woe to the hilis that shall rebound 

Our banner'd bag-pipes' maddening sound j 

Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round, 

Shall shake their inmost cell. 
Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze, 
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays ! 
The fools might face the lightmng's blaze 

As wisely and as well I 



SAINT CLOUD. 
Parts, ^th September, 1815. 
Soft spread tlie southern summer night 
Her veil of darksome blue ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



395 



Then thousand stars combined to light 

The terrace of Saint Cloud. 
The evening breezes gently sigh'd, 

Like h eath of lover true, 
Bewailing the deserted pride 

And wreck of sv/eet Saint Cloud. 

The drum's deep roll was heard afar, 

The bugle wildly blew 
Good-night to Hulan and Hussar, 

That garrison Saint Cloud. 

The startled Naiads from the shade 

With broken urns withdrew, 
And silenced was that proud cascade, 

The glory of Saint Cloud, 

We sate upon its steps of stone, 

Nor could its silence rue, 
When waked to music of our own, 

The echoes of Saint Cloud. 

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note 

Fall light as summer dew, 
While through the moonless air thsy float, 

Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud. 

And sure a melody more sweet 

His waters never knew, 
Though music's self was wont to meet 

With Princes at Saint Cloud. 

Nor then, with more delighted ear, 

The circle round her' drew, 
Than ours, when gather' d round to hear 

Our songstress at Saint Cloud. 

Few happy hours poor mortals pass, — 
Then givr those hours their clue, 

And rank among the foremost class 
Oui evenings at Saint Cloud. 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 
1815. 



Night and morning were at meeting 

Over Waterloo ; 
Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; 

Faint and low they crew. 
For no paly beam yet shone 
On the heights of Mount Saint John ; 
Tempest-clouds prolong'd the sway 
Of timeless darkness over day ; 
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower, 
Mark'd it a predestined hour. 
Broad and frequent through the night 
Flashed the sheets of levin-light; 



Muskets, glancing lightnings back, 
Show'd the dreary bivouac 

Where the soldier lay, 
Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, 
Wishing dawn of morn again. 

Though death should come with day. 



'Tis at such a tide and hour, 
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, 
And ghastly forms through mist and 
shower 

Gleam on the gifted ken ; 
And then the affrighted prophet's ear 
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear 
Presaging death and ruin near 

Among the sons of men ;— 
Apart from Albyn's war-array, 
'Tvvas then gray Allan sleepless lay; 
Gray Allan, who, for many a day, 

Had follow'd stout and stern, 
Where, through battle's rout and reel^ 
Storm of shot and hedge of steel, 
Led the grandson of Lochiel, 

Valiant Fassiefern. 
Through steel and shot he leads no more, 
Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore- 
But long his native lake's wild shore. 
And Sunart rough and high Ardgower, 

And Morven long shall tell. 
And proud Bennevis hear with awe, 
How, upon bloody Ouatre-Bras, 
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra 

Of conquest as he fell. 

III. 

'Lone on the outskirts of the host. 

The weary sentinel held post, 

And heard, through darkness far aloof, 

Where held a cloak'd patrol their course, 

And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving 

horse ; 
But there are sounds in Allan's ear, 
Patrol nor sentinel may hear. 
And sights before his eye aghast 
Invisible to them have pass'd. 

When down the destined plain, 
'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, 
Wild as marsh-born meteor's glance. 
Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance, 

And doom'd the future slain. — 
Such forms were seen, such sounds were 

heard 
When Scotland's James his march pre* 

pared 
For Flodden's fatal plain; 



39^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, 
As Choosers of the Slain, adored 

The yet unchristen'd Dane. 
An indistinct and phantom band, 
They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in 
hand, 
With gestures wild and dread ; 
The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, 
Saw til rough their faint and shadowy form 
The lightning's flash more red ; 
And still their ghastly roundelay 
Was of the coming battle-fray, 
And of the destined dead. 

IV. 

Song. 

Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance, 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave. 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Our airy feet. 
So light and fleet, 

They do not bend the rye 
That sinks its head when whirlwinds 

rave. 
And swells agam m eddying wave, 

As each wild gust blows by ; 
But still the corn ; 
At dawn of morn. 

Our fatal steps that bore, 
At eve lies waste, 
A trampled paste 

Of blackenmg mud and gore. 



Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnmg^ glance, 

And thunders rattl: loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave. 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Wheel the wild dance ! 
Brave sons of France, 

For you our ring makes room ; 
Make space full wide 
For martial pride, ^ 

For banner, spear, and plume. 
Approach, draw near, 
Proud Cuirassier ! 

Room for the men of steel 1 
Through crest and plate 
The broadsword's weight 

Both head at\d heart shall feel. 



VI. 

Wheel the wild dance 1 
While lightnings glance. 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Sons of the Spear 1 
You feel us near 

In many a ghastly dream ; 
With fancy's eye 
Our forms you spy, 

And hear our fatal scream. 
With clearer sight 
Ere falls the night, 

Just when to weal or woe 
Your disembodied souls take flight 
On trembling wing — each startled sprite 
Our choir of death shall know. 



Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance, 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, 
Redder rain shall soon be ours — 

See the east grows wan — 
Yield we place to sterner game, 
Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame 
Shall the welkin's thunders shame • 
Elemental rage is tame 

To the wrath of man. 



At mom, gray Allan's mates with awe 
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw, 

The legend heard him say ; 
But the Seer's gifted eye was dim. 
Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb, 

Ere closed that bloody day — 
He sleeps far from his Highland heaih,— <» 
But often of the Dance of Death 

His comrades tell the tale, 
On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, 
And waning watch-fires glow less bright, 

And dawn is glimmering pale. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



397 



ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.* 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

1815. 

The original of this little Romance makes 
part of a manuscript collection of French Songs 
(probably compiled by some youn^ officer), 
whicli was found on the field of Waterloo, so 
much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently 
to indicate the fate of its late owner. Tho song 
is popular in France, and is rather a good 
specimen of the style of composition to which it 
belongs. The translation is strictly literal. 

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was 

ijound for Palestine, 
But first he made his orisons before St. 

Mary's shrine : 
•' And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven," 

was still the Soldier's prayer, 
*' That 1 may prove the bravest knight, and 

love the fairest fair." 

His oath of' honor on the shrine he graved 
it with his sword, 

And followed to tlie Holy Land the banner 
of his Lord ; 

Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war- 
cry fiU'd the air, 

" Be honor'd aye the bravest knight, beloved 
the fairest fair." 

They owed the conquest to his arm, and 

then his Liege-Lord said, 
" The heart that has for honor beat by bliss 

must be repaid, — 
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a 

wedded pair, 
For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest 

of the fair." 

And then they bound the holy knot before 
Saint Mary's shrine, 

That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts 
and hands combine ; 

And every lord and lady bright, that were 
in chapel there, 

Cried " Honor'd -be the bravest knight, be- 
loved the fairest fair." 

■• " Partant pour la Syrie" was written and 
the air composed by Queen Hortense of Hol- 
land, the daughter of Josephine, and the mother 
of Napoleon IlL It has become the national 
air of Fran^^. 



THE TROUBADOUR. 

FROM THE SAME COLLECTION. 

Also Composed and Written by Queen 
Hortense. 
1815. 
Glowing with love, on fire for fame, 

A Troubadour that hated sorrow, 
Beneath his Lady's window came, 

And thus he sung his last good-morriw : 
'•My arm it is ni^ country's right. 

My heart is in my true-love"s bower ; 
Gayly for love and fame to fight 

Befits the gallant Troubadour." 

And while he march'd with helm on head 

And harp in hand, the descant rung, 
As, faithful to his favorite maid. 

The minstrel-burden still he sung : 
" My arm it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
Resolved for love and fame to fight, 

I come a gallant Troubadour." 

Even when the battle-roar was deep. 

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way. 
Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, 

And still was heard his warrior lay • 
" My life it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower; 
For love to die, for fame to fight, 

Becomes the valiant Troubadour " 

Alas ! upon the bloody field 

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, 
But still reclining on his shield, 

Expiring sung the exultmg stave : 
" My life it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
For love and fame to fall m fight 

Becomes the valiant Troubadour. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 
1815. 

It chanced that Cupid on a season, 
By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, 

But could not settle whether Reason 
Or Folly should partake his bed. 

What does he then?— Upon my life, 
'Twas bad example for a deity — 

He takes me Reason for a wife, 
And Folly for his hours of gayety. . 



398 



SCOTT'S POETICAL .WORKS. 



Though thus he dealt in petty treason, 
He loved them both in equal measure ; 

Fide'ity was born of Reason, 
And Folly brought to bed of rie.isure. 



SONG. 



On the lifting of the l>an}icr of the House 
of Buccleitch, at a great foot-ball Diatch 
on Carterhaugh. 

1S15 . 

From the brown crest of Newark its sum- 
mons extending, 
Our signal is waving in snioke and in 
iiame ; 
A.nd each forester blithe, from his mountain 
descending, 
Bounds Hght o'er the heather to join in 
the game. 

CHORUS. 

Then up with the Banner^ let forest wi)ids 
fan her, 
She has blazed over Et trick eight ages 
and more ; 
In sport weHl attend, her, in battle defetid 
her. 
With heart and with hand, like our 
fathers before. 

When the Southern invader spread waste 
and disorder, 
At the glance of her crescents he paused 
and withdrew, 
For around them were marshall'd the pride 
of the Border, 
The Flowers of the Forest, the bands of 

BUCCLEUCH. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has 
borne her. 
No mall-glove has grasp'd her, no spear- 
men surround ; 
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or 
should scorn her, 
A thousand true hearts would be cold on 
the ground. 

Then up with the Banner, &:c. 

"We iorget each contention of civil dissen- 
sion, 
And hail, like our brethren, Home, 
Douglas, iind Car : 

And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall 
mingle, 



As welcome in peace as their fathers in 
war. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be 
the weather, 
And if, bv mischance, you should happen 
total!,' 
There are worse things in life than a tumble 
on heather. 
And. life is itself but a game at foot-ball. 
Then up with the Banner, &c. 

And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe 
measure 
To each Laird and each Lady that wit- 
ness'd our fun. 
And to every blithe heart that took part in 
our pleasure, 
To the lads that have lost and the lads 
that have won. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

May the Forest still flourish, both Borougli 
and Landward, 
From the hall of the Peer to the Herd's 
ingle-nook ; 
And huzza 1 my brave hearts, for Buc- 
cleuch and his standard. 
For the King and the Country, the Clan 
and the Duke ! 

Then tip with the Banner, let forest winds 
fan her, 
She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages 
and more ; 
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend 
her, 
With heart and -with hand, like our 
fathers before. 



LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. 

Air — Cadulgu lo, 

1815. 

O, HUSH ihee, my babie, thy sire was a 

knight, 
Tiiy mother a lady, both lovely and bright ; 
The woods and the glens, from the towers 

which we see. 
They are all beloiiging, dear babie, to thee. 
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, 
O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



399 



O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it 

blows, 
It calls but the warders that guard thy 

repose ; 
Their bows would be bended, their blades 

would be red, 
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy 

bed. 

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 

III. 
O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will 

come, 
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet 

and drum ; 
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while 

you may. 
For strife comes with manhood, and -waking 

with day. 

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 



^0ugs of Prg P^rvilks. 

FROM GUY MANNERING. 
l8t5. 

"TWIST YE, TWINE YE." 

Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife. 
In the thread of human life. 

While the mystic twist is spinning, 
And the infant's life beginnirg, 
Dimly seen through twilight bending, 
Lo, what varied shapes attending ! 

Passions wild, and follies vain, 
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain ; 
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear, 
In the magic dance appear. 

{■Now they wax, and now they dwindle, 
I'WIiirling with the whirling spindle. 
'Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle human bliss and woe. 

Vol. I, Chap. iii. 

THE DYING GYPSY'S DIRGE. 

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 
Wrestling thus with earth and clay ? 
From the body pass away ; — 

Hark 1 the mass is singing, 



From thee doff thy mortal weed, 
Mary Mother be thy speed, 
Saints to help thee at thy need ; — 

Hark 1 the knell is ringing. 

Fear not snow-drift driving fast. 
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast ; 
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast. 
And the sleep be on thee cast 

That shall ne'er know waking. 

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone. 
Earth flits fast, and time draws on,— 
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan, 
Day IS near the breaking. 



THE RETURN TO ULSTER. 
i8i6. 

Once again,- -but how changed since my 
v/and'rings began, — 

I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan 
and Bann, 

And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to the 
roar 

That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. 

Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst 
thou burn ? 

With the scenes of my youth can its rap- 
tures return ? 

Can I live the dear life of delusion again, 

That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd 
with my strain ? 

It was then that around me, though poor 

and unknown. 
High spells of mysterious enchantment were 

thrown ; 
The streams were of silver, of diamond the 

dew, 
The land was an Eden, for fancy, was new. 
I had heaid of our bards, and my soul was 

on fire 
At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of 

their lyre : 
To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the 

ear, 
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and 

clear. 

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call, 
And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and 

the hall ; 
And the standard of Fion flash' d fierce from 

on high, 
Like a burst ot the sun whtjn the tempest is 

nigh. 



400 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It seem'd that the harp of green Erin cnce 

more 
Could renew all the glories she boasted of 

yore. — 
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, 

should'st thou burn ? 
They were days, of delusion and cannot 

return. 

But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid who 

stood by, 
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from 

mine eye? 
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view, 
Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or melted to 

dev/ ? 
Oh ! would it had been so, — Oh ! would that 

her eye. 
Had been but a star-glance that shot through 

the sky. 
And her voice that was moulded to melody's 

thrill, 
Had been but a zephyr, that sigh'd and was 

still 1 

Oh ! would it had been so,— not then this 

poor heart 
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to 

part ; 
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care, 
While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to 

share. 
Not then had I said, when life's summer 

was den?. 
And the hours of her autumn were fast 

speeding on, 
" Take the fame and the riches ye brought 

in your train, 
And restore me the dream of my spring- 
tide again." 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

Air— ^ Border Melody. 

iSi6. 

The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The 
others were written for Mr. Campbell's Albyn's 
Anthology. 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladie.? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride. 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen " — 



But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
For Jock of Hazeldean. 

li. 
" xNow let this vvilfu' grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord ot Langley-dale ; 
His step is first m peaceful ha', 

H]s sword in battle keen" 

But aye she loot the tears down fa* 

For Jock of Hazeldeen. 

III. 

" A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you, the foremost o' them a', 

Shall ride our forest queen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 

The tapers g'immer'd fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.* 

Air. — " Ptobair of Doiuiil DhnidhP 

1816. 

This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to 
Clan Macdonald, and supposed to refer to the 
expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 143 1, 
launched from the Isles with a consideiabie 
force, invaded Locliaber, and at -Inverlociiy 
defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar and 
Caithness, though at the head of an army 
superior to his own. Tlie words of the set, 
theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations 
are applied, run thus m Gaelic: — 

Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 

Dhonuil 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi. 
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, 
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, 



♦ Z?>4«— the Black. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



401 



The war-pipe and the penncn are on the 
gathering place at Inverlochy. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons t 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from your deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy. 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter; 
Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 

The bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges ; 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the winds come, when 

Forests are rended, 
Come as the waves come, when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come. 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 
Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume. 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset ! 

NORA'S VOW. 
Pi.lK'-^Cha teid mis a chaoidh* 

WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY- 

ISI6. 

In the original Gaelic, the Lady makes pro- 
testations that she will not go with the Red 
Earl's son, until the swan should build in the 
dm, and the eagle in the lake — until one 



will never go with him. 
26 



mountain should change place with another 
and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there 
is no autliority for supposing that she altered 
her mind —except the vehemence of her pro* 
testation. 

I. 
Hear what Highland Nora said— 
" The Earlie's son I will not wed, 
Should all the race of nature die, 
And none be left but he and i. 
For all the gold, for all the gear, 
And all the lands both far and near, 
That ever valor lost or won, 
I would not wed the Earlie's son." 



" A maiden's vows," old Galium spoke, 
" Are lightly made and lightly broke ; 
The heather on the mountain's height 
Begins to bloom in purple light ; 
I'he frost-wind soon shall sweep away 
That lustre deep from glen and brae ; 
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, 
May blithely wed the Earlie's son." — 

III. 
" The swan," she said, " the lake's dear 

breast 
May barter for the eagle's nest ; 
The Awe's fierce stream may backward 

turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; 
Our kilted clans, when blood is high. 
Before their foes may turn and fly ; 
But I, were all these marvels done. 
Would never wed the Earlie's son." 

IV. 

Still in the water-lily's shade 

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made ; 

Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, 

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; 

To shun the clash of foeman's steel. 

No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel ; 

But Nora's heart is lost and won, 

— She's wedded to th3 Earlie's son ! 

MACGREGOR'S GATHERIxNG. 
Air — Thain' a Grtgalach* 

WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY. 
1816. 

These verses are adapted to a very wild, 
yet lively gathering-tune, used by the Mac- 
Gregors The severe treatment of this Clan, 
their outlawry, and the proscription of their 

very name, are alluded to in :.he Ballad. 

• " The MacGregor U come." 



402 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on 

the brae, 
Knd the Clan has a name that is nameless 
by day ; 
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach I 
Gather, gather, gather, &c. 

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we 

drew, 
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful 
haloo ! 
Then haloo, Grigalach ! haloo, Grigalach ! 
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, &c. 

Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn 

and her towers, 
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are 
ours ; 
We're landless, landless, landless, Griga- 
lach ! 
Landless, landless, landless, &c. 

But doom'd and devoted by vassal and 

lord, 
Macgregor has still both his heart and his 
sword ! 
Then courage, courage, courage, Griga- 
lach I 
Courage, courage, courage, &c. 

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with 

beagles. 
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh 
to the eagles ! 
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, 

Grigalach ! 
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c. 

While fhere's leaves in the forest, and foam 

on the river, 
Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish for 
ever ! 
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Griga- 
lach, 
Come then, come then, come then, &c. 

Through the depths of Lech Katrine the 

steed shall career, 
O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley 

shall steer, 
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles 

melt, 
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance 

unfelt! . 
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach ! 
Gather, gather, gather, &c. 



VERSES. 

COMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION, ADAPTED 
TO HAYDN'S AIR, 

" God Save the Emperor Francis^'' 

AND SUNG BY A SELECT BAND AFTE?| 

THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE LORD 

PROVOST OF EDINBURGH TO THE 

GRAND-DUKE NICHOLAS OF RUSSIA; 
AND HIS SUITE. 

I9TH DECEMBER 1816. 

God protect brave Alexander, 

Heaven defend fehe noble Czar, 
Mighty Russia's high Commander, 

First in Europe's banded war ! 
For the realms he did deliver 

From the tyrant overthrown, 
Thou, of every good the Giver, 

Grant him long to bless his own} 
Bless him, 'mid his land's disaster, 

For her rights who battled brave, 
Of the land of foemen master, 

Bless him who their wrongs forgave! 

O'er his just resentment victor, 

Victor over Europe's foes, 
Late and long supreme director. 

Grant in peace his reign may close 1 
Hailj then, hail ! illustrious stranger ! 

Welcome to our mountain strand ! 
Mutual mterests, hopes, and danger, 

Link us with thy native land. 
Freemen's force, or false beguiling, 

Shall that union ne'er divide. 
Hand m hand while peace is smiling, 

And in battle side by side. 



^ougs from t^e gmtiquarg. 
1816. 

TIME. 

" Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall, 
Thou aged carle so stern and gray? 

Dost thou its former pride recall. 
Or ponder how it pass'd away ! " — 

" Know'st thou not me 1 " the Deep Voica 

cried ; 
'• So long eujoy'd, so oft misused— 
Alternate, in thy fickle pride. 
Desired, neglected, and accused 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



403 



" Before my breath, like blazlnj flax., 

Man and his marvels pass awiiy ! 
And changing empires wane and wax, 

Are founded, flourish, and decay. 
" Redeem mine hours — the space is brief — 

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, 
And measureless thy joy or grief. 

When Time, and thou shalt oart for 
ever 1 ^^-r-Chap x 



ELSPETH'S BALLAD. 

The herring loves the merry moon light, 

The mackerel loves the wind, 
But the oyster loves the dredging sang, 

For they come of a gentle kind. 

Now baud your tongue, baith wite and 
carle, 

And listen great and sma", 
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl 

That fought on the red Harlaw 

The cronach's cried on Bennachie, 

And doun the Don and a', 
And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be 

For the sair field of Harlaw, 

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, 
They hae bridled a hundred black, 

With a chafron of steel on each horse's 
head. 
And a good knight upon his back. 

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 

A mile but barely ten, 
When Donald came branking down the 
brae 

Wi' twenty thousand men. 

Their tartans they were waving wide, 
Their glaives were glancing clear, 

The pibrochs rung frae side to side, 
Would deafen ye to hear. 

The great Earl in his stirrups stood, 

That Hii, nd host to see : 
*' Now here a knight that's stout and good 

May prove a jeopardie : 
** What would'st thou do, my squire so 

gay, 

That rides beside my reyne, — 

Were ye Glenallan s Earl the day. 

And I wer Roland Cheyne .'' 

" To turn the rein were sin and shame, 
To fight were wondrous peril, — 

"What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl I "— - 



'• Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide. 
And ye were Roland Cheyne, 

The spur should be in my horses' side, 
And the bridle upon his mane. 

" If they hae twenty thousand blades, 

And we tv/ice ten times ten. 
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, 

And we are mail-clad men, 

" My horse shall ride throu-gh ranks ! 
rude. 

As through the moorland fern, — 
Then ne'er let the gentle Xorman blade 

Grow cauld for Highland kerne." 

^ ■jfr ^ T^ %^ ^ 

He tum'd him right and round again. 
Said, Scorn na at my mither ; 

Light loves I may get mony a ane, 
But minnie ne'er anither, — Ckap. si. 



MOTTO ftS 

IN THE ANTIQUARY. 

I KNEW Anselmo. He was shrewd and 

prudent, 
Wisdom and cunning had their shares of 

him ; 
But he was shrevv^ish as a wayward child. 
And pleased again by toys which childhood 

please ; 
As— book of fables graced with print of 

wood, 
Or else the jingling of a rusty medal, 
Or the rare "melody of some old ditty. 
That first was sung to please King Pepin's 

cradle. 

CHAP. IX. 

" Be brave," she cried, " you yet may be 

our guest. 
Our haunted room was ever held the best : 
If, then, your valor can the fight sustain 

I Of rustling curtains, and the clinking chain 

! If your courageous tongue have powers to 

I talk, 

I When round your bed the horrid ghost 

' shall walk, 

j If you dare ask it why it leaves its tomb, 

: I'll see your sheets well air'd, and show the 

j room. True Story 

I CHAP XI. 

Sometimes he thinks that Heav.n this 

vision sent. 
And order' d all the pageants. Hi they went i 



404 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Sometimes that only 'twas wild Fancy's 

play,— 
The loose and scatter'd relics of the day. 

CHAP. XII. 

Beggar ! — the only freemen of your Com- 
monwealth ! 
Free above Scot-free, that observe no laws, 
Obey no governor, use no religion 
But what they draw from their own ancient 

customs, 
Or constitute themselves, yet they are no 
rebels. — Brome. 

CHAP. XIX. 

Here has been such a stormy encounter. 
Betwixt my cousin Captain and this 

soldier, 
About I know not what — nothing, indeed ; 
Competitions, degrees, and comparatives 
Of soldiership : — A Fai7-e Quarrel. 

CHAP. XX. 

If you fail honor here, 

Never presume to serv^ her any more; 
Bid farewell to the mtegrity of arms, 
And the honorable namj of soldier 
Fall from you, lika a shiver'd wreath of 

laurel 
By thunder struck from a desertless : fore- 
head. — A Faire Quarrel. 

CHAP. XXI 

The Lord Abbot had a soul 

Subtile and quick, and searching as the 

fire : 
By magic stairs he went as deep as hell, 
And if in devils' possession gold be kept. 
He brought some sure from thence— 'tis 

hid in caves. 
Known, save to me, to none. 

The Wonder of a Kingdome. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

Many great ones 

Would part with half their states, to have 

the plan 
And credit to beg in the first style. 

Beggar'' s Bush. 

CHAP. XXX. 

Who is he ?— One that for the lack of land 
Shall fight upon the water— he hath chal- 
lenged 
Formerly the grand whale : and by his 
titles 



Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth. 
He tilted with a sword-fish — Marry, sir, 
Th' aquatit had the best — the argument 
Still galls our champion's breech. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Tell me not of it, friend — when the young 

weep. 
Their tears are lukewarm brine ; — from our 

old eyes 
Sorrow falls down lil e hail-drops of the 

North, 
Chilling the furrows of our wither'd cheeks, 
Cold as our hopes, and harden'd as our 

feeling — 
Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless — ours 

recoil, 
Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before 

us.— O/^ Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Remorse — she ne'er forsakes us ! — 
' A bloodhound stanch — she tracks our rapid 
I step 
! Through the wild labyrinth of youthful 

frenzy, 
Unheard, perchance, until old age hath 
' tamed us ; 

Then in our lair, when Time hath chill'd 

our joints, 
And maim'd our hope of combat, or of 

flight, 
We hear her deep-mouth'd bay, announcing 

all 
Of wrath and woe and punishment that bides 
us.— O/^ Play. 

CHAP. XXXIV. 

Still in his dead hand clench'd remain the 

strings 
That thrill his father's heart — e'en as the 

limb, 
Lopp'd off and laid in grave, retains, they 

tell us. 
Strange commerce with the mutilated 

sturrjp. 
Whose nerves are twinging still in naim'(J 

existence. — Old Play. 

CH.VP. XXXV. 

Life, with you, 

Glows in the brain and dances .a the 

arteries ; 
'Tis like the wine some joyous guest hath 

quaff'd, 
That glads the heart and elevates the 

fancy; — 



M ISC EL LA A ^EOUS PCE MS 



405 



Mine is the poor residuum of the cup, 
Vapid, and dull, and tasteless, only soiling 
With its base dregs the vessel that contains 
it.— (9A/ Play. 

CHAP. XXXVII. 

Yes ! I love Justice well — as well as you 

' do- 
But, since the good dame's blind, she shall 

excuse me, 
If. time and reason fitting, I prove dumb ; — 
The breath I utter now shall be no means 
To take away from me my breath in 
future.— C?/./ Play. 

CHAP. XXXVIII. 

Well, well, at worst, 'tis neither theft nor 

coinage, i 

Granting 1 knew all that you charge me 

with 
What, the' th tomb h9.th borne a second 

bath, 
And given the wealth to one th5t knew not 

on"t. 
Vet fair exchange was never robbery, 
Far less pur^ bounty. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XL. 

Life ebbs trom such old age, unmark'd and 

silent, 
As the slow neap-tide leaves yon stranded 

galley- 
Late shv rock'd merrily at the least impulse 
That wind or wa"- could pive ; bi;: now her 

keel 
Is settling on thi sar.d, her mast has ta'en 
An angle with the sky, from which it shifts 

not. 
Each wave receding shakes her less and 

less. 
Till, bedded on th.- strand, she shall remain 
Useless as motionless. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XLI. 

So, while the Goose, of whom the fable 

told. ■ 
Incumbent, brooded o'er her eggs of gold, 
With hand outstretch'd, impatient to de- 
stroy , 
Stole on her secre*" nest the cruel Boy, 
Whose gripe rapaci jUi? changed her splendid 

dream, 
For wings vain fluttering, an*d for dying 
scream. 

The Lovss of the Sea- Weeds. 

CHAP. XLII. 

Let those go see who will — I like it not— 
For, say he was a slave to rank and pomp, 



And all the nothings he is now divorcee 

from 
By the hard doom of stern necessity ; 
Yet is it sad to mark his alter'd brow, 
Where vanity adjusts her flimsy veil 
O'er the deep wrinkles of repentant An 

guish. — Old Play 

CHAP, XLin 

Fortune, you say, flies from us -She but 

circles, 
Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowle''s 

skiff,- 
Lost in the mist one moment, and the next 
Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing, 
As if to court the aim ••- Experienc. 

watches. 
And has her on the wheel. - Old Play 

CHAP. XLIV 

Nay, if she love me not, 1 care not for her ; 
Shall I look pale because the maiden 

blooms ? 
Or sigh because she smiles — ^nd smiles on 

others ? 
Not I, by Heaven! — I hold my peace too 

dear, 
To let it, like the plume upon her cap, 
Siiake at each nod that her caprice shall 

dictate.— OA/ Play. 



^XQXVi 



1816 



CHAP. XVI, 



— — 'TwAS time and griefs 

Tb-at framed him thus : Time, with his 

fairer hand, 
Offering the fortunes of his former days. 
The former man may make him— Bring uf 

to him. 
And chance it as it may. — Old Play. 



Jrom ©l^ gicrtalits. 
1816. 

MAJOR BELLENDEN'S SONG. 

A?.'D what though winter still pinch severe 
Through locks of gray and a cloak that'« 
old, 

Y^t keep up thy heart, bold cavalier, 
For a cup of sack shall fence the cold. 



4o6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



For time will rust the brightest blade, 
And years ''a'i break the strongest bow ; 

Was never wight so starkly made, 
But time and years would overthrow ! 
Chap. xix. 

VERSES FOUND IN BOTHWELL'S 
POCKET-BOOK. 

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright, 
As in that well-remember' d night, 
When first thy mystic braid was wove, 
And first my Agnes whisper'd love. 

Since then how often hast thoU press'd 
The torrid zone of this wild breast, 
Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell 
With the first sin which peopled hell. 
A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, 
Each throb the earthquake's- wild commo- 
tion ! — 
O, if such clim3 thou canst endure. 
Yet keep thy hue unstained and pure, 
What conquest o'er each erring thought 
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought I 
I had not wander'd wild and wide, 
With such an angel for my guide ; 
Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove 

me. 
If she had lived, and lived to love me. 

Not then this world's wild joys had beeh 
To me one savage hunting scene. 
My sole dehght the headlong race, 
And frantic hurry of the chase ; 
To start, pursue, and bring to bay, 
Rush m, drag down,. and rend my prey, 
Then — from the carcass turn away ! 
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, 
And soothed each wound which pride in- 
flamed ! 
Yes, God and man might now approve me, 
If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me. 
Chap, xxiii. 

MOTTOES 

FROr OLD MORTALITY. 
CHAP. XIV. 

My hoimds may a' rin masterless, 
My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, 

My lord may grip my vassal lands, 
For there again maun I never be ! 

Old Ballad. 

CHAP. XXXIV. 

pcnmd, sound the clarion, fill the fife I 
To all the sensual world proclaim, 



One crowded hour of glorious Irie 
Is worth an age without a name, 

Ajionymous. 



THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS 

OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN, 
1817. 

Oh for a glance of that gay Muse's eye, 
That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing 

tale, _ 
And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and sly. 
When Giam Battista bade her vision 

hail !— 
Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail 
Given by the natives of that land ca- 
norous ; 
Italian license loves to leap the pale, 
We Britons have the fear of shame be- 
fore us. 
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be 
j decorous. 

I "• 

I In the far eastern .clime, no great while 
I since, 

, Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince, 
i Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their 
I round, 

j Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground : 
Whose ears received the same unvaried 

phrase, 
" Sultaun ! thy vassal hears, and he obeys !" 
All have their tastes — this may the fancy 

strike 
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur 

like ; 
For me, I love the honest heart and warm 
Of Monarch who can amble round his farm, 
Or, wlien the toil of state no more annoys, 
In chimney-corner seek domestic joys — 
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass, 
Exchanging with his subjects glance and 

glass ; 
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay. 
Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay — 
Such Monarchs best our iree-born Ao 

mors suit, 
But Despots must be stately, stern and 
mute. 

in. 
This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway — 
And Where's Serendib? may some critic 
say. — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



407 



Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the 

chart, 
Scare not my Pegasus before I start i 
If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap, 
The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's 

map,— 
Famed mariner ! whose merciless narra- 

1;jons 
Drove every friend and kinsman out of 

patience, 
Till, faui to find a guest who thought them 

shorter, 
He deign'd to tell them over to a porter — 
The last edition see, by Long. & Co., 
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the 

Row. 

IV. 

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fic- 
tion — 
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradic- 
tion — 
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, 
To raise the spirits and reform the juices, 
—Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures 
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in 

yours). 
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome 

bitter, 
Or cordial smooth for prince's palate 

fitter— 
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams 
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild 

themes 
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle'craft, 
I wot not— but the Sultaun never laugh'd. 
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy. 
That scorn'd all remedy— profane or holy ; 
In his long list of melancliolies, mad,- 
Or mazed, or dumb, hatli Burton none so 
bad.* 

V. 

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and 

tried. 
As e'er scrawl 'd jargon in a' darken 'd 

room ; 
With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue 

they eyed, 
Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where 

beside. 
And then in solemn accent spoke their 

doom. 

" His Majesty is very far from well." 
Then each to work with his specific fell : 



* See Bnrton, Anatomy of Melancholy. 



The Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought 
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut, 
While Roompot, a practitioner more wily, 
Relied on liis Munaskif al fillfily. 
Jilore and yet more in deep array appear. 
And some the front assail, and some th© 

rear ; 
Their remedies to reinforce and vary, 
Caip.e surgeon eke, and eke apothecary ; 
Till the tired Monarch, though of words 

grown chary, 
Vet dropt, to recompense their fruitless 

labor. 
Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre. 
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer 

speeches 
To rid the palace of those learned leeches. 

VI. 

Then was the council call'd — by their ad- 
vice 
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and 
nice, 
And sought to shift it off from their own 
shoulders), 
Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent, 
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament 

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders — 
Such have the Persians at this very day, 
My gallant Malcolm calls them cou' 

roiiltai , — 
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song 
Tliat to Serendib the same forms belong, — 
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me 
if I'm wrong. 

VII. 

Tb.e Omrahs, each with hand on cimetar. 
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for 

war^ 
" The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath 
Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of 

death ; 
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle. 
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout 

of battle ! 
This dreary cloud that dims our sove- 
reign's day. 
Shall from liis kindled bosom flit away, 
When the bold Lootie wheels his courser 

round, 
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the 

ground. 
Eacii noble pants to own the glorious 

summons — 
And for the charges — Lol your faithful 

Commons I " 



4o8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The Riots who attended in their places 
(Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) 

Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, 
From this oration auguring much dis- 
quiet, 

Double asaessment, forage, and free quar- 
ters; 

And fearing these as China-men the Tar- 
tars, 

Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the 
mousers, 

Each fumbled in the pocket of his trowsers. 

VIII. 

And next came forth the reverend Convo- 
cation, 
Bald heads, white beards, and many a 

turban green, 
Imaum and Mollah there of every station, 
Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were 

seen. 
Their votes were various — some advised a 

Mosque 
With fitting revenues should be erected, 
With seemly gardens and with gay 

Kiosque, 
To recreate a band of priests selected ; 
Others opined that through the realms a 

dole 
Be made to holy men, whose prayers 

might profit 
The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul. 
But tlieir long-headed Chief, the bheik 

Ul-Sofit, 
More closely touch'd the point : — " Thy 

studious mood," 
Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all 

thy blood, 
And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond 

measure ; 
Wherefore relax a space and take thy 

pleasure, 
And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy 

treasure ; 
From all the cares of state, my Liege, 

enlarge thee. 
And leave the burden to thy faithful 

clergy." 

IX. 

These counsels sage availed not a whit, 
And so the patient (as is not uncom- 
mon 
Where grave physicians lose their time 
and wit) 
Resolved to take advice of an old 
woman ; 



His mother she, a dame who once was 

beauteous, 
And still was call'd so by each subject 

duteous. 
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest, 

Or only made believe, I cannot say — 
But she profess'd to cuie disease the 

sternest. 
By dint of magic amulet or lay ; 
And, when all other skill in vain was shown, 
She deem'd it fitting time to use her own. 



'■'■ Sympathia magica hath wonders done'* 
(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son), 
" It works upon the fibres and the pores, 
And thus, insensibly, our health restores, 
And it must help ub here. — Thou must en* 

dure 
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. 
Search land and sea, aiid get where'er you 

can, 
The inmost vesture of a happy man, 
I mean his shirt, my son; which, taken 

warm 
And fresh from off his back, shall chase 

your harm, 
Bid every current of your veins rejoice, 
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd- 
boy's." 
Such was the counsel from his mother 

came ; — 
I know not if she had some under-game, 
As Doctofs have, who bid their patients 

roam 
And live abroad, when sure to die at home ; 
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another 
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen- 
Mother ; 
But, says the Chronicle (who will go look 

it). 
That such was her advice — the Sultaun 
took it. 

XI. 

All are on board — the Sultaun and his 
train, 

In gilded galley prompt to plough the main. 
The old Rais * was the first who ques- 
tion'd, " Whither ? " 

They paused — " Arabia," thought the pen- 
sive Prince, 



' Sea captain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



409 



** Was call'd the Happy many ages since — 
For Mokha, Rais." — And they came safely 

thither. 
But not in Araby, with all her balm, 
Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, 
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, 
Could there the step of happiness be traced. 
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her 

smile, 
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile : 
She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he 

quat^'d, 
But vanish'd from him with the ended 

draught. 

XII. 

* Enough of ' turbans," said the weary 

" These dolimans of ours are not the 

thing ; 
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and 

cap, I 
Incline to think some of them must be 

happy ; 
At least, they have as fair a cause as any 

can, 
They drink good wine and keep no Ram- 

azan. 
Then northward, ho ! " — The vessel cuts 

the sea, 
And fair Italia lies upon her lee. — 
But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd 
Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world. 
Long from her throne of domination 

tumbled, 
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely 

humbled ; 
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and 

lean. 
And was not half the man he once had 

been. 
" While these the priest and those the noble 

fleeces, 
Our poor o'.d boot," they said, " is torn to 

pieces. 
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, 
And the Great Devil is rending toe and 

heel 
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly. 
We think she dwells with one Giovanni 

Bulli ; 
A tramontane, a heretic, — the buck, 
Poffaredio ! stili has all the luck ; 
By land or ocean never strikes his flag — 
And then — a perfect walking money-bag." 



Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's 

abode, 
But first took France — it lay upon tha 

road. 

XIII. 

Monsieur Baboon, after much late commo* 

tion. 
Was agitated like a settling ocean. 
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what 

ail'd him, 
Only the glory of his house had fail'd 

him ; 
Besides some tumors on his Apddle 

biding, 
Gave indication of a recent hiding 
Our Prince, though Suitauns of such things 

are heedless, 
Thought it a thing indelicate and needless 

To ask, if at that moment he was happy. 
And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme it 

fa2it, a 
Loud voice muster' d up, for '• Vive le Roi I '* 
Then whisper'd, " Ave you any news of 

Nappy ? " 
The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross 

question, — 
" Pray, can you tell me aught of one John 

Bull, 
That dwells somewhere beyond your 

herrin,£r-pool ? " 
The query seem'd of difficult digestion, 
Th : party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took 

his snuff, 
And found his whole good-breeding scarce 

enough. 



Tv/itching his visage into as many puckers 
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers 
(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and 

lawn, 
And bade the veil of modesty be drawn). 
Replied the Frenchman, after a brief 

pause, 
" Jean Bool !— I vas not know him— Yes, I 

vas — 
I vas remember dat, von year or tv/o, 
I saw him at von place calPd Vaterloo — 
Ma foi ! il s'est tres joliment battu, 
Dat is for Englishman, — m'entendezvous? 
But den he liad wit him one damn son-gun, 
Rogue I no like — dey call him Vellington." 
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his 

fret. 
So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd thf 

strait. 



410 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



John Bull was in his very worst of moods, 
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods ; 
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, 
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. 
His wars were ended, and the victory won, 
But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest 

John ; 
And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's 

Vv'ay, 
""Never to grumble till he came to pay ; 
And then he always thinks, his temper's 

such, 
The work too little and the pay too much." 
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and 

hearty, 
That when his mortal foe was on the floor. 
And past the power to harm his quiet more, 
Poor John had well nigh wept for Bona- 
parte ! 
Such was the wight whom Solimaun 

salam'd, — 
" And who are you," John answer'd, " and 

d — d 1" 



XVI. 

" A stranger, come to see the happiest 
man, — 

So, signior, all avouch, — in Frangistan." — 

" Happy ? my tenants breaking on m.y 
hand ; 

Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my 
land ; 

Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths 

The sole consumers of my good broad- 
cloths — 

Happy? — Why, cursed war and racking 
tax 

Have left us scarcely raiment to our 
backs." — 

In that case, signior, I may take my leave ; 

I came to ask a favor — but I grieve " 

** Favor ? " said John, and eyed the Sultaun 
hard, 

" Its my belief you come to break the 
yard i — 

But, stay, you look like some poor foreign 
sinner, — 

Take that to buy yourself a shirt and din- 
ner." — 

With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head ; 

But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, 

"Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline ; 

A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. 



! Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare yoa 
I well."— 

" Kiss and be d- — d," quoth John, " and go 

to hell ! " 



XVIT. 

Next door to John there dv/elt his sister 

Peg, 
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg 
When the blithe bagpipe blew — but, soberer 

nov/, 
She doitcely span her flax and milk'd her 

cow. 
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, 
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, 
Yet once a-month her house was partly 

swept. 
And once a-week a plenteous board she 

kept, 
A.nd whereas, eke, the vixen used her 

claws 
And teeth, of yore, on slender provoca- 
tion, 
She now was grown amenable to laws, 

A quiet soul as any in the nation ; 
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys 
Was in old songs she sang to please her 

boys. 
John Bull, whom, in their years of early 

strife. 
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life. 
Now found the woman, as he said, a 

neighbor. 
Who look'd to the main chance, declined no 

labor. 
Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern 

jargon, 
And was d — d close in making of a bar- 
gain. 

XVIII. 

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg. 
And wiin aecorum curtsy'd sister Peg. 
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or 

two, 
And guess'd at once with whom she had to 

do.) 
She bade him " Sit into the fire," and took 
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from tli« 

nook ; 
Ask'd him " about the news from Eastern 

parts ; 
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland 

hearts ! 
If peace brought down the price of tea and 

pepper, 
And if the iiiimegs were grown onf 

cheaper ;-- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



411 



Were there nae speerings of our Mungo 

Park— 
Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark ! 
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spin- 

nin', 
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-weaiing liuen." 

XIX. 

Then tip got Peg, and round the house 

'gan scuttle 
Tn search of goods her customer to nail, 
Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely 

throttle, 
And hollo'd — " Ma'am, that is not what 

I ail. 
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug 

glen?" 
"Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye 

want to ken ? 
Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, 
Grain wadna pay the yoking of the 

pleugh." — 
** What say you to the present ? *' — " Meal's 

sae dear, 
To mak' their brose my bairns have 

scarce aneugh." — 
" The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, 
" I think my quest will end as it began.— 
Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I 

beg » 

" Ye'll no be for the linen then ? " said Peg. 



Now, for the land of verdant Erin, 

The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, 

The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy 

dwells. 
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. 
For a !ong space had John, with words 

of thunder. 
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept 

Paddy under, 
Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd 

unduly, 
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. 
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allov/, 
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow ; 
His landlord, and of middle-men two 

brace, 
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving- 
place ; 
His garment was a top coat, and an old 

one, 
His meal was a potato, and a cold one ; 
But still for fun or frolic, and all that, 
Sn all the round world was not the match of 

Pat. 



The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, 
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day ♦ 
When mass is ended, and his load of sins 
Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from 

her binns 
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit. 
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, jind 

spirit I 
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free. 
And dance as light as leaf upon the. tree. 
" By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, 
" That ragged fellow is our very man ! 
Rush in and seize him — do not do him 

hurt, 
But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt.^^ — 

XXII. 

Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulk- 
ing 

(Much less provocation will set it a-walk- 
ing). 

But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd 
Paddy Whack ; 

They seized, and they floor'd, and they 
stripp'd him — Alack I 

Up-bubbool Paddy had not a shirt to 

his back 111 

And the King, disappointed, with sorrow 
and shame. 

Went back to Serendib as sad as he came. 



THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW 
HILL. 

1817. 

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet ; 
The westland wind is husli and still, 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those bright hues that once it 
bore; 
Though evening, with her richest dye, 

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore 

With listless look along the plain, 

I see Tweed's silver current ghde, 
And coldly mark the holy fane 

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. 
The quiet lake, the balmy air, 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the 
tree, — 
Are they still such as once they were \ 

Or is the dreary change in me ? 



412 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Alas, the warp'd and broken board, 

How can it bear the painter's dye ! 
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, 

How to the minstrel's skill reply I 
To aching eyes each landscape lowers, 

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill : 
And Araby's or Eden's bowers 

Were barren as this moorland bilL 



THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S 

MARCH. 

Air — " Ymdaiih MiongeJ* 

"^^RITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON' S 
WELSH MELODIES. 

1817. 
Ethelfrid or Olfrid, King of North- 
Tjmberland, having besieged Chester in 613, 
and Brockmael, a British Prince, advanc- 
ing to relieve it, the religious of the neigh- 
boring Monastery of Bangor marched in 
procession, to pray for the success of their 
countrymen. But the British being totally 
defeated, the heathen victor put the monks 
(o the sword, and destroyed their monastery. 
The tune to wh;ch these verses are adapted 
IS called the Monks' March, and is supposed 
to liave been played at their ill-omened 
procession. 

When the heathen trumpet's clang 
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, 
Veiled nun and friar gray 
March'd from Ban,j;or's fair Abbaye : 
High their ho^y anthem sounds, 
Cestria's vale the hymn rebotinds, 
Floating down the sylvan Dee, 

b miserere, Domine / 

On the long procession goes, 
Glory round their crosses glows, 
And the Virgin-mother mild 
in th.cir peaceful banner smiled : 
V/ho could think such saintly band 
I )com'd to feel unhallow'd hand t 
^uch was the Divine decree, 

O miserere^ Domine ! 

T'ands that masses only snng, 
Hands that censers only swung. 
Met the northern bow and bill. 
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill : 
Woe to Brockmaei's feeble hand, 
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, 
Woe to Saxon cruelty, 

O miserere, Domine .' 

Weltering amid warriors slain, 
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane, 



Slaughtered down by heathen blade, 
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid j 
Word of parting rest unspoke, 
Mass tmsung, and bread unbroke ; 
For their souls for charity, 

Sing, O miserere, Domitpsi 

Bangor ! o'er the murder wail I 
Long thy ruins told the tale ; 
Shatter'd tower .md broken arch 
Long recall d the woeful march : • 
On thy shrine no tapers bum. 
Never shall thy priests return ; 
The pilgrim sighs, and sings for thee, 
O miserere, Domine I 



giolfocs from gob §05. 



In the wide pile, by others heeded not, 

Hers was one sacred solitary spot, 

Wh.ose gloomy aisles and bending shelves 

contain, 
P'or moral hunger food, and cures for moral 

pain. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XIII. 

Dire was his thought, who first In poison 

steep'd 
The weapon form'd for slaughter — diret 

his, 
And worthier of damnation, who instill'd 
The mortal venom in the social cup, 
To fill the veins with death instead of 

life. — A n onymous. 

CHAP. XXll, 

Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's 

the place 
Which men (for being poor) are sent to 

starve in, — 
Fude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. 
Within these walls, stifled by damp and 

stench, 
Doth Hope's fair torch expire : and at the 

snufT, 
Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and 

wayward, 
The desperate revelries of wild despair. 
Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to 

deeds 

* In William of Malmsburv's time the ruind 
of Hangor still attested the cruelty of tins 
Northumbrians. 



MISCELLANEOUS EOEMS. 



4^3 



That the poor captive would have died ere 
practised, 

Till bondage sunk his soul to his condi- 
tion. — The Prison^ Scene iii. Act i. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

Far as the eye could reach no tree was 

seen, 
Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively 

green ; 
TJo birds, except as birds of passage, flew ; 
No bee was heard to him, no dove to coo ; 
No streams, as amber smooth, as amber 

clear. 
Were seen to glide, or heard to warble 

here. — Prophecy of Fmnitie. 

CHAP. XXXI, 

*' Woe to the vanquish'd ! " was stern 

Brenno's word. 
When sunk proud Rome beneath the 

Gallic sword — 
*' Woe to the vanquish'd ! " when his 

massive blade 
Bore down the scale against her ransom 

weigh 'd. 
And on the field of foughten battle still. 
Who knows no limit save the victors 

will. — The Gavlliad. 

CHAP, xxxir. 

And be he safe restored ere evening set. 
Or, if there's vengeance in an injured hear 
And power to wreck it in an armed hand, 
Your land shall ache for X—Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVI. 

Farewell to the land where the clouds love 
to rest, 

Like the shroud of the dead on the moun- 
tain's cold breast ; 

To the cataract's roar where the eagles 
reply, 

And the lake her lone bosom expands to 
the sky. 



MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL 
ADDRESS, 

ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH 

STAGE. 

1817. 

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's 

sound, 
Erects his mane, and neigiis, and paws the 

ground — 



Disdams the ease his generous lord assigns, 
And longs to rush on tlie embattled lines, 
So 1, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, 
Can scarce sustain to think our parting 

near ; 
To think my scenic hour forever past. 
And that these valued plaudits are niy last> 
Why should we part, while still some 

powers remain. 
That in your service strive not ^yet ir, 

vain ? 
Cannot high zeal the strength of ycutl; 

supply, 
And sense of duty fire the fading eye ; 
And all the wrongs of age remain subdued 
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude ? 
Ah no ! — the taper, wearing to its close, 
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows ; 
But all too soon the transient gleam is 

past — 
It cannot ba renew'd, and will not last; 
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage 
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of 

age. 
Yes ! it were poor, remembering what I 

was, 
To live a pensioner on your applause, 
To drain the dregs of your endurance dry, 
And take, as alms, the praise 1 once couli 

buy; 
Till eveiy sneering youth around inquires, 
" Is this the man who once could please 

our sires ? " 
And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful 

mien, 
To warn me off from the encumber'd scene. 
This must not be ; — and higher duties 

crave 
Some space between the theatre and the 

grave. 
That, like the Roman in the Capitol, 
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall ; 
My life's brief act in public service flown, 
The last, the closing scene, must be my 

own. 

Here, then, adieu ! while yet some well 
graced parts 
May fix an ancient favorite in your hearts, 
Not quite to be forgotten, even when 
You look on better actors, younger men : 
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt 
Of old remembrance, how shall mine for- 
get— 
O, how forget ! — how oft I hither came 
In anxious hope, how oft return'd v/ith 
fame I 



414 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How oft around your circle this weak hand 
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic 

wand, 
Till the full burst of inspiration came, 
And 1 have felt, and you have fann'd the 

flame ! 
By mcm'ry treasured, while her reign en- 
dures, 
Those. Jiours must live — and all their charms 

are yours. 
O favor' d Land, renown'd for arts and 

arms, 
For manly talent, and for female charms. 
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking 

line, 
What fervent benedictions now were thine ! 
But my last part is plav'd, my knell is rung, 
When e'en your praise falls faltering from 

my tongue ; 
And all that you can hear, or I can tell, 
Is — Friends and Patrons, hail ! and Fare 

YOU WELL ! 



LINES, 

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH. 



When the lone pilgrim views afar 
The shrine that is his guiding star, 
With awe his footsteps print the road 
Which the loved saint of yore has trod. 
As near he draws, and yet moi-e near, 
His dim eye sparkles with a tear ; 
The Gothic fane's unwonted show, 
The choral hymn, the taper's glow, 
Oppress his soul ; while they delight 
And chasten rapture with affright. 
No longer dare he think his toil 
Can merit aught his patron's smile ; 
Too light appears the distant way, 
The chilly eve, the sultry day — 
All these endured no favor claim, 
Bjt murmuring forth the sainted name, 
He lays his little offering down, 
And only deprecates a frown. 

We, too, who ply the Thespian art. 
Oft feel such bodings of the heart, 
And, when our utmost powers are strain'd, 
Dare hardly hope your favor gain'd. 
She, who from sister climes has sought 
The ancient land where Wallace fought — 
Land long renown'd for arms and arts, 
And conquering eyes and dauntless 
hearts- 



She, as the flutterings here avow, 
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors nou ; 
Yet sure on Caledonian plain 
The stranger never sued m vain. 
'Tis yours the hospitable task 
To give tiie applause she dare not ask ; 
And they who bid the pilgrim speed. 
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed. 



TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, 
DRUMLANRIG CASTLE. 

Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 30, 1S17. 
From Ross, where the clouds on Benlomond 

are sleeping — 
From Greenock, where Clyde to the Ocean 

is sweeping — 
From Largs, where the Scotch gave the 

Northmen a drilling — 
From Ardrossan, whose harbor cost many 

a shilling — 
From Old Cumnock where beds are as hard 

as a plank, sir — 
From a chop and green pease, and a chicken 

in Sanquhar, 
This eve, please the fates, at Drumlanrig we 

anchor. W. S. 

[Sir Walter's companion on this excursion 
was Captain, now Sir Adam Ferguson. — See 
Li/e, vol. v., p. 234.1 



I8I7. 

(i.)— TO THE MEMORY OF ED- 
WARD THE BLACK PRINCE. 

"A blotted piece of paper dropped out of the 
book, and being taken up by my fatlier, he in- 
terrupted a hint from Owen, on the propriety 
of securing loose memoranda with a little paste, 
by exclaiming, ' To the memory of Edward the 
Black Prince— What's all this'?— verses ! — By 
Heaven, Frank, you are a greater blockhead 
dian I supposed you!' " 

O for the voice of that wild horn. 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 

The dying hero's call. 
That told imperial Charlemagne, 
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain, 

Had wrought his champion's fall. 

'■^^Fontarabian echoes l^ coritinued my 
tather. interrupting himself J 'the Fontaral»ia« 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



415 



Fair would have been more to the purpose. — 
Paynun ? — What's Paymim ? — Could you not 
say Pagan as well, and write English, at least, 
if you must needs write nonsense.' " 

Sad over earth and ocean sounding 

And England's distant cliffs astounding 

Such are the notes should say 
How Britain's hope, and France's fear 
Victor of Cressy and Poitier. 

Jn Bourdeaux dying lay. 

" ' Poitiers, by the way, is always spelled with 
an ^, and 1 know no reason why orthography 
should give place to rhyme.' " 

*' Raise my faint head, my squires," he 

said, 
" And let the casement be display'd, 

That I may see once naore 
The splendor of the settmg sun 
Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne, 
And Blaye's empurpled shore." 

"** Garonne and mn is a bad rhyme. Why, 
Frank, you do not even understand the beggarly 
trade yuu have chosen.' " 

" Like me, he smks to Glory's sleep, 
His tall the dews of evening steep, 

As if in sorrow shed. 
So soft shall fall the trickling tear, 
When England's maids and matrons hear 

Of their Black Edward dead. 

•» ' And though my sun of glory set, 
Nor France nor England shall torget 

The terror of my name ; 
And ott shall Britain's heroes rise, 
New planets in these southern skies. 

Through clouds ot blood and flame." 

*"A cloud of flame is something new — Good- 
morrow, my masters all, and a merry Christmas 
to you ! — Why, the bellman writes better 
iioes.' " Cka/>- n. 



Led on by Agramant, their youthful king- 
He whom revenge and hasty ire did bring 
O'ci the broad wave, in France to waste 
and wai ; 
Such ills horn old Trojano's death did 
spring. 
Which to avenge he came from realms 
afar, 
And menaced Christian Charles, the Roman 

Emperor. 
Of dauntless Roland, too, my strain shall 
sound, 
In import never known in prose and 
rhyme, 
How He, the chief of judgment deem'd pro- 
found, 
For luckless love was crazed upon a 
time — 

"'There is a sreat deal of it,' said she^, 
glancing along th:; paper, and interrupting the 
sweetest sounds which mortal eai^ can drink in ; 
those of a youthful poet's vfr-c-5, ndin ;ly, read 
by the lips whicu are deai-bc to th' m/' 



(2.)— TRANSLATION FROM 

ARIOSTO. 

1817. 

"Miss Vernon proceeded to read the first 
stanza, which was nearly to the following pur- 
pose ; " — 

Ladies, and knights, and arms, and love's 

fair flame. 
Deeds of emprize and courtesy, I sine , 
What time the Moors from sultry Africk 

came, 



EPILOGUE TO THE APPEAL. 

spoken by mrs. henry siddons, 

Feb. 16, 1818. 

A CAT of yore (or else old yEsop lied) 
Was changed into a fair and bloomingf 

bride. 
But spied a mouse upon her marriage-day, 
Forgot her spouse, and seized upon her 

prey ; 
Even thtis my bridegroom lawyer, as yon 

saw. 
Threw off poor me, and pounced upu;\ 

papa. 
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot macl? 

loose. 
He twisted round my sire's the Hteral noose. 
Such are the fruits of our dramatic labor 
Since the New Jail became our next-docr 

neighbor. 

Yes, times are changed ; for, in your fathers 

The lawyers were the patrons of the stage ; 
However high advanced by future fate, 
There stands the bench [points tfi the Pu\ 

that first received their weight. 
The future legal sage, 'twas ours to see. 
Doom though unwigg'd and plead withottj 

a iee. 



4x6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But now, astounding each poor mimic elf, 
Instead of lawyers comes the law herself ; 
Tremendous neighbor on our right she 

dwells. 
Builds high her towers and excavates her 

cells ; 
While on the left she agitates the town. 
With the tempestuous question, Up or 

down ? 
'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we, 
Law's final end, and law's uncertainty. 
But soft ! who lives at Rome the Pope must 

^flatter, 
And jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter. 
Then — just farewell! We wait with serious 

awe 
Till your applause or censure gives the law. 
Trusting our humble efforts may assure ye, 
We hold you Court and Counsel, Judge and 

Jury. 



MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT 

1818. 

Air—*' Cha till mi tuilleP 

Macknnimon, hereditary piper to the Laird 
of Macleod, is said to have composed this 
Lament when the Clai, was about 10 depart 
upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The 
Minstrel was impressed with a belief, wiiich 
the event verified, that he was to be slain in the 
approaching feud ; and hence the Gaelx words, 
" Cha till mi tuille ; ged thillis Macleod, cha 
iitl Mackritnmon," " I shall never return ; al- 
though Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall 
never return!" The piece is but too well 
known, from its being the strain with which 
the emigrants from the West Highlands and 
Isles usually take leave of their native shore. 

MacLeod's wizard flag from the gray cas- 
tle sallies, 

The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the 
galleys ; 

Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target 
and quiver, 

As Maclcrimmon sings, " Farewell to Dun- 
vegan for ever! 

Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are 
foaming ; 

Farewell each dark glen, in which red-deer 
are roaming ; 

Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and 
river ; 

Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall 
never 1 



" Farewell the bright clouds that on Q\xu\aA 

are sleeping ; 
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are 

weeping ; 
To each minstrel delusion, farewell ! — and 

forever — 
Mackrimmon departs to return to- you 

never ! 
The Banshee's wild voice sings the death- 
dirge before me. 
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'esj 

me ; 
But my lieart shall not flag, and my nerves 

shall not shiver, 
Though devoted I go — to return again 

never I 

" Too eft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's 

bewailing 
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are 

sailing ; 
Dear land"; to the shores, whence unwilling 

we sever. 
Return — return — return shall we never I 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin ttiilie ! 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrim- 
mon ! " 



DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN. 

Air — " Malcolm CaircTs come again? 
1818. 

CHORUS. 

Donated Cairo's come again f 
Donald Caird's come agaiti ' 
TelliJie news in britgh and gleu^ 
Donald Caird^s conie again. 

Donald Caird can lilt and sing, 
Blithely dance the Highland fling, 
Drink till the gudeman be blind, 
Fleech till the gudewife be kind ; 
Hoop a legiin, clout a pan. 
Or crack a pow wi' ony man ; 
Tell the news m brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again. 

Donald Caird'' s come again ' 
Donald Caird' s come again ' 
Tell the nezvs iii Irugh and gletn^ 
Donald Caird's conic again. 
Donald Caird can v/ire a maukin, 
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer stauitio', 



M ISC ELL A NEOUS POEMS. 



4^7 



Leisters kipper, makes a shift 

To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift ; 

Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers, 

He can wauk when they are sleepers ; 

Not for bountitli or reward 

Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird. 

Donald Caird'' s come again ! 
Donald Caird' s come again ! 
TelltUe news in briigh and glen, 
Donald Caird' s come again. 

Donald Caird can drink a gill 
Fast as hostler-wife can fill ; 
ilka ane tliat sells gude liquor 
Kens how Donald bends a bicker ; 
When he's fou he's stout and sauc}--, 
Keeps the cantle o' the cawsey; 
Hieland chief and Lawland laird 
Maun gie room to Donald Caird I 

Donald Caird' s come again .' 
Donald Caird' s come again ' 
Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird' s come again. 

Steek the amrie, lock the kist, 
Else some gear may wee! !oe mis't ; 
Donald Caird finds orra tilings 
Where Allan Gregor fand tlie tings ; 
Dunts of Kebbuck, taits o' woo. 
Whiles a hen and whiles a sow, 
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard — 
'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird 1 

Donald Caird'' s come again ' 
Donald Caird'' s come again / 
Dinna let the Shirra ken 
Donald Caird's come again. 

On Donald Caird the doom was stern, 
Craig to tether, legs to airn, 
But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study, 
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie; 
Rings of airn, and bolts of steel. 
Fell like ice frae hand and heel ! 
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again 1 

Donald Caird^s come again ! 
Donald Caird^s come aoain! 
Dinna let the Justice ken 
Donald Caird's come again. 



Ex-ITAPII ON MRS. ERSKINE, 
1S19. 
Plain, as her native dignity of mind, 
Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd : 
27 



Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll 
Emblem of lovely form and candid soul. ' 
But, oh ! what symbol may avail, to tell* 
The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved so 

well) 
What sculpture show the broken ties of life, 
Here buried with the parent, friend and 

wife I 
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear, 
By which thine urn, Euphemia, claims the 

tear ! 
Yet taught, by thy meek sufferance, tu 

assume 
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb, 
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall 

flow, 
And brief, alas ! as thy brief span below. 



Jfrom i\% p^art of Pib-f otljiau. 
181S. 

MADGE WILDFIRE'S SONGS. 

When thegledd's in the blue cloud, 

The lavrock lies still ; 
When the hound's in the green-wood, 

The hind keeps the hill. 



sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said. 
When ye suld rise and ride? 

There's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, 
Are seeking where ye hide. 



Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, 

Dub a dub, dub a dub ; 

Have at old Beelzebub, — 
Oliver's running for fear. — 



I glance like the wildfire through country 

and town ; 
I'm seen on the causeway— I'm seen on the 

-down ; 
The lightning that flashes so bright and so 

free. 
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me. 

What did ye wi' the bridal ring— bridal ring 

—bridal ring ? 
What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye little 

_ cutty quean, O ? 
I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger, 
I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love 0' 

mine, O. 



4J 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Good even, good fair moon, good even to 

thee ; 
I prithee, dear moon, now shovv^ to me 
The foim and the features, the speech and 

degree, 
Of tlif; man that true lover of mine shall be. 

It is the bonny butcher lad, 
That wears the sleeves of blue, 

He sells the flesh on Saturday, 
On Friday that he slew. 



There's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald 
Wood, 

There's harness glancing sheen ; 
There's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae, 

And she sings loud between. 



Up in the air. 

On my bonnie gray mare, 

And 1 see, and I see, and 1 see her yet. 

Jn rhe bonnie cells of Bedlam, 

Ere I was ane and twenty, 
1 hud hempen bracelets strong, 
And merry whips, ding-dong, 
And prayers and fasting plenty. 



My banes are buried in yon kirk -yard 

Sae lar ayont the sea, 
And jt is but my blithsome ghaist 

That's speaking now to thee. 

I'm Madge of the country, I'm Madge of the 

town, 
And I'm Madge of the lad I am blithest to 

own — 
The I^adyof Beever in diamonds may shine, 
But has not a heart half so lightsome as 

mine. 



7 am Oue.'^n oi the Wake, and I'm Lady of 
Ma- 

And I leaa vhe blithe ring round the May- 
pole to-day ; 

The wild-fire that flashes so fair and so free 

Was never so bright or so bonnie as me. 



Our work is over — over now, 
The goodman wipes his weary brow, 
The last long wain wends slow away, 
And we are free to sport and play. 

The night comes on when sets the sun, 
Asd labor ends when day is done. 



When Autumn's gone, and Winter's come, 
We hold our iovial harvest-home. 

When the fight of grace is fought, — 
When the marriage vest is wrought, — 
When Faith has chased cold Doubt away, -i 
And hope but sickens at delay,— 

When Charity, imprison'd here. 
Longs for a more expanded sphere ; 
Doff thy robe of sin and clay , 
Christian, rise, and come away. 



Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald, 
And sad my sleep of sorrow : 

But thine sail be as sad and cauld, 
My fause true-love ! to-morrow. 

And weep ye not, my maidens free, 
^1. Though death your mistress borrow \ 
For he for whom I die to-day. 
Shall die for me to-morrow. 



Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early ; 
Sweet Robin sits on the bush. 

Singing so rarely. 

" Tell me, thou bonny bii'd. 
When shall I marry me ! "— • 

" When six braw gentlemen 
Kirkward shall carry ye." 

" Who makes the bridal bed. 

Birdie, say truly ? " — 
*• The gray-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

" The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 

Shall light thee steady. 
The owl from the steeple sing, 

* Welcome, proud lady.' " 



<from ll^e gribi of ITammermffOt 
1819. 

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. 

Look not thou on beauty's charming,— 
Sit thou still when kings are arming,— 
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,—' 
Speak not when the people listens, — 
Stop thine ear against the singer,-— 
From the red gold keep thy finger, 
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,_^ 
Easy live and quiet die. — Chap.'i^ ^ 



MISCELLANE US POEMS 



4^9 



NORMAN THE FORESTER'S SONG. 

The monk must arise when the matins 
ring, 
The abbot may sleep to their chime ; 
But the yeoman must start when the bugles 

sing. , , . . 

'Tis time, my heart, 'tis time. 

There's bucks and raes^on Billhope braes, 
There's a herd on Sli'ortwood Shaw ; 

But a lily white doe in the garden goes. 
She's fairly worth them ■a'.— Chap. iii. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XIV. * 

As, to the Autumn breeze's bugle-sound, 
Various and vague the dry Laves dance their 

round ; 
Or, from the garner-door, an aether borne, 
The chaff flies devious from the winnow'd 

corn ; 
So vague, so devious, at the breath of 

heaven, 
From their fix'd aim are mortal counsels 

driven. — Anonymous , 

CHAP. XVII. 

Here is a father now, 

Will truck his daughter for a foreign ven- 
ture. 
Make her a stop-gap to some canker'd feud, 
Or fling her o'er, like Jonah, to the fishes, 
To appease the sea at highest. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP, XVIII. 

Sir, stay at home and take an old man's 
counsel ; 

Seek not to bask you by a stranger's heartli ; 

Our own blue smoke is warmer than their 
fire. 

Domestic food is wholesome, though 'tis 
homely. 

And foreign dainties poisonous, tjiough taste- 
ful. — The French Courtezan. 

CHAP, XXV, 

True-love, an' thou be true. 

Thou hast ane kittle part to play, 

For fortune, fashion, fancy, and thou 
Maun strive for many a daj^ 

I've kend by mony a friend's tale, 
Far better by this heart of mine, 

What time and change of fancy avail 
A true love-knot to untwine. 

Hendersoini. 



CHAP. xxvn. 
Why, now 1 have Dame Fortune by the 

forelock. 
And if she 'scapes my grasp, the fault is 

mine ; 
He that hath buffeted with stern adversity, 
Best knows to shape his course to favoring 

breezes.— Did Play. 



(from l^e S^genb of gloittrose. 

ANNOT LYLE'S SONGS. 



Birds of omen dark and foul, 
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl, 
Leave the sick man to his dream — 
All night long he heard you scream. 
Haste to cave and ruin'd tower, 
Ivy tod, or dmgled-bower, 
There to wink and mope, for, hark ! 
In the mid air sings the lark. 



Hie to moorish gills and rocks, 
Prowling wolf and wily fox,— 
Hie ye fast, nor turn your view, 
Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. 
Couch your trains and speed your flight, 
Safety parts with parting night ; 
And on distant echo borne. 
Comes the hunter's early horn. 



The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams, 
Ghost-like she fades in morning beams ; 
Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay 
That scare the pilgrim on his way. — 
Quench, kelpy ! quench, in fog and fen, 
Thy torch, that cheats benighted men , 
Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done, 
For Benyieglo hath seen the sun. 

IV. 

Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, a^ 

deep, 
O'erpower the passive mind m sleep. 
Pass from the slumberer's soul away. 
Like night-mists from the brow of day . 
Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim 
Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, 
Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone ! 
Thou darest not face the godlike sun. 

Chap. vi. 



42 o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE ORPHA'N MAID. 

November's hail cloud drifts away, 

November's sun-beam wan 
Looks coldly on the castle gray, 

When forth comes Lady Anne. 

The orphan by the oak was set, 

Her arms, her feet, were bare ; 
The hail-drops had not melted yet, 

Amid her raven hair. 

•' And dame," she said, " by all the ties 

That child and mother know, 
Aid one who never knew these joys, — 

Relieve an orphan's woe." 

The lady said, " An orphan's state 

Is hard and sad to bear ; 
Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate, 

Who mourns both lord and heir. 

* Twelve times the rolling year has sped. 
Since, while from vengeance wild 

Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, 
Forth's eddies whelm'd my child."— 

' Twelve times the year its course has borne," 

The wandering maid replied ; 
" Since fishers on St. Bridget's mom 

Drew nets on Campsie side. 

" St. Bridget sent no scaly spoil ; 

An infant, well-nigh dead, 
They saved, and rear'd in want and toil. 

To beg from you her bread." 

That orphan maid the lady kiss'd, — 
" My husband's looks you bear; 

Saint Bridget and her morn be bless'd! 
You are his widow's heir." 

They've robed that maid, so poor and pale, 

In silk and sendals rare, 
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail, 

Are glistening in her hair. — Chap. ix. 



THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 



High deeds achieved of knightly fame. 
From Palestine the champion came; 
The cross upon his shoulders borne. 
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn. 
Each dint upon his batter'd shield 
Was token of a foughten field ; 
And thus, beneath his lady's bower, 
He sung, as fell the twilight hour : 



" Joy to the fair I— thy knight behold, 
Return'd from yonder land of gold ; 
No wealth he brings, no wealtli can need, 
Save his good arms and battle-steed ; 
His spurs to dash against a foe, 
His lance and sword to lay him low ; 
Such all the trophies of his toil, 
Such— and the hope of Tekla's smile ! 



" Joy to the fair ! whose constant knight 
Her favor fired to feats of might! 
Unnoted shall she not remain 
Where meet the bright and noble train ; 
Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell — 
" Mark yonder maid of beauty well, 
'Tis she for whose bright eyes was won 
The listed field of Ascalon 1 

IV. 

" ' Note well her smile ! — it edged the 

blade 
Which fifty v^ives to widows made, 
When, vain his strength and Mahound's 

spell, 
Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell. 
See'st thou her locks, whose sunny glow 
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow ? 
Twines not of them one golden thread. 
But for its sake a Paynim bled.' 



" Joy to the fair ! — my name unknown. 
Each deed, and all its praise, thine own; 
Then, oh ! unbar this churlish gate, 
The night-dew falls, the hour is late. 
Inured to Syria's glowing breath, 
I feel the north breeze chill as death ; 
Let grateful love quell maiden shame, 
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame." 
Chap xviii. 

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR. 

I. 

I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth 

or twain, 
To search Europe through from Byzantium 

to Spain ! 
But ne'er shall you find, should you search 

till you tire. 
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. 

II. 
Your knight for his lady pricks forth in 

career, 
And is brought home at even-song prick'd 

through with a spear ; 



MTSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



421 



I confess him in haste — for his lady desires 
No comfort on eartn save the Barefooted 

Friar's. 

III. 
Your monarch ! — Pshaw ! many a prince 

has been known 
To barter his robes for our cowl and our 

gown ; 
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire 
To exchange for a crown the gray hood of 

a Friar? 



The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he 

has gone, 
The land and his fatness is mark'd for his 

own ; 
He can roam where he lists, he can stop 

where he tires, 
For every man's house is the Barefooted 

Friar's. 

v» 
He's expected at noon, and no wight, till he 

comes, 
May profane the great chair, or the porridge 

of plums ; 
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by 

the fire, 
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted 

Friar. 

VI. 

He's expected at night, and the pasty's made 

hot. 
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the 

black pot ; 
And the good-wife would wish the good-man 

in the mire, 
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted 

Friar. 

VII. 

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the 

cope, 
The dread of the devil and trust of ihe 

Pope ! 
For to gather life's roses unscathed by the 

briar 
'i granted alone to the Barefooted Friar. 
Chap. xViii. 

SAXON WAR-SONG. 



Whet the bright steel, 
Sons of the White Dragon 1 
Kindle the torch, 
Daughter of Hengist ! 



The steel glimmers not for the carving of 

the banquet, 
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed ; 
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber, 
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. 
Whet the steel, the raven croaks ! 
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling ! 
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon ! 
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist ! 



The black clouds are low over the thane 

castle ; 
The eagle screams — he rides on their 

bosom. 
Scream not, gray rider of the sable cloud, 
Tliy banquet is prepared ! 
The maidens of Valhalla look forth, 
The race of Hengist will send them guests. 
Shake vour black tresses, maidens of 

Valhalla ! 
And strike your loud timbrels for joy ! 
Many a haughty step bends to your halls, 
Many a helmed head. 

III. 
Dark sits the evening upon the thane's 

castle. 
The black clouds gather round ; 
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the 

valiant 1 
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red 

crest against them ; 
He, the bright consumer of palaces, 
Broad waves he his blazing banner, 
Red, wide, and dusky, 
Over the strife of the valiant ; 
His joy is in the clashing swords and 

broken bucklers ; 
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it 

bursts warm from the wound! 

IV. 

All must perish ! 

The sword cleaveth the helmet ; 

The strong armor is pierced by the lance : 

Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes, 

Engines break down the fences of the 

battle. 
All must perish ! 
The race of Hengist is gone — 
The name of Horsa is no more ! 
Shrink not then from your doom, sons o^ 

the sword ! 
Let your blades drink blood like wine ; 
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, 
By the light of the blazing halls I 



42 2 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Strons; be your swords while your blood is 

warm. 
And spare neither for pity nor fear, 
For vengeance hath but an hour ; 
Strong hate itself shall expire ! 
1 also must perish 

Note. — '''' It will readily occur to the anti- 
fjiiary, that these verses are intended to imitate 
the antique poetry of the Scalds— the minstrels 
of the old Scandinavians— the race, as tlie 
Laureate so happily terms them, 

*' Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure, 
Who smiled in death." 

The poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, after tlieir 
civilization and conversion, was of a different 
and softer character ; but in the circumstances 
of Ulrica, she may be not unnaturallv supposed 
to return to the wild strains which animated her 
forefatiiers durino; the times of Paganism and 
untamed ferocity."— C^i^/. xxxii. 

REBECCA'S HYMN. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out from the land of bondage came, 
Her fathers' God before her moved. 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonish'd lands 

The clouded pillar glided slow ; 
By night Arabia's crimson'd sands 

Return' d the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise. 

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen. 
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays, 

With priest's and warrior's voice be- 
tween. 
No portents now our foes amaze, 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 
Our fathers would not know Thy ways. 

And Thou hast left them to their own. 

But present still, though now unseen ! 

When brightly shines the prosperous 
day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night, 
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 
But Thou hast said, The blood of goat, 

The flesh of rams, 1 wili not prize ; 
A contrite heart, a humble thought. 

Are mine accepted sacrifice.— Oia/. xl. 



THE BLACK KNIGHT'S SONG 
OR VIRELAL 

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 

Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun. 

Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing 

free. 
Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie. 
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn, 
The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his 

horn. 
The echo rings merry from rock and fronts 

tree. 
'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna 

Marie. 

WAMBA. 

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, 
Around my soft pillow while softer dreams 

flit; 
For what are the joys that in waking we 

prove. 
Compared with these visions, O Tybalt, my 

love ? 
Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol 

shrill ; 
Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on 

the hill, 
Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I 

prove. 
But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, my 

love.— Gia/. xli. 

SONG. 

DUET BETWEEN THE BLACK KNIGHT 
AND WAMBA. 

There came three merry men from south, 
west, and north. 
Ever more sing the roimdelay ; 
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth. 
And where was the widow might say 
them nay ? 

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale 
he came, 
Ever more sing the roundelay ; 
And his fathers, God save us, were men ol' 
great fame. 
And where was the widow might say hirn 



nay 



Of his father the laird, of his uncle the 
squire. 
He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay , 
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire. 
For she was the widow would say him 
nay. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



423 



WAMBA. 

The next that came forth, swore by blood 
and by nails, 
Merrily sing the roundelay ; 
Hur's a gentleman, God wot, and hur's 
lineage was of Wales, 
And where was the widow might say him 
nay? 

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh 
Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his rounde- 
lay ; 
She said that one widow for so many was 
too few, 
And she bade the Welshman wend his 
way. 

But then next came a yeornan, a yeoman 
of Kent, 
Jollily singing his roundelay ; 
He spoke to the widow of living and rent. 
And where was a widow could say him 
nay? 

BOTH. 

So the knight and the squire were both left 
in the mire. 
There for to sing their roundelay ; 
For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent, 
There ne'er was a widow could say him 
nay.— CVi^/. xh. 

FUNERAL HYMN. 

Dust unto dust. 
To this all must ; 

The tenant has resign'd 
The faded form 
To waste and worm — 

Corruption claims her kind. 

Through paths unknown 
Thy soul liath flown, 

To seek the realms of woe, 
Where fiery pain 
Shall urge the stain 

Of actions done below. 

In that sad place, 
By Mary's grace. 

Brief may thy dwelling be ; 
Till prayers and alms, 
And holy psalms. 

Shall set the captive free. 

Chap, xliii. 



MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Approach the chamber, look upon his 

bed. 
His is the passing of no peaceful ghost, 
Which, as the lark arises to the sky, 
'Mid morning's sweetest breeze and softest 

dew. 
Is wing'd to heaven by good men's sighs and 

tears ! 
Anselm parts otherwise. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Trust me, each state must have its policies : 
Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their 

charters ; 
Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk, 
Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline. 
For not since Adam wore his verdarjt 

apron, 
Hath man with man in social union dwelt. 
But laws were made to draw the union 

closer. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVl. 

Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts. 
Strive with the half-starved lion for his 

prey; 
Lesser the risk, than rouse the slumbering 

fire 
Of wild Fanaticism. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXXVII. 

Say not my art is fraud — all live by 

seeming. 
The beggar begs with it, and the gay 

courtier 
Gains land and title, rank and rule, by 

seeming ; 
The clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier 
Will eke with it his service.— All admit it, 
All practice it; and he who is content 
With showing what he is, shall have small 

credit 
In church, or camp, or state.— So wags the 

world.— O/^ Play. 

CHAP. XXXVIII. 

Stern was the law which bade its vot'ries 

leave 
At human woes with human hearts to 

grieve ; 
Stern was the law which at the winning 

wile 
Of frank and harmless mirth forbade to 

smile ; 



424 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But sterner still, when high the iron rod 
Of tyrant power she shook, and calTd that 
power of God. — The Middle Ages. 



(from i\iz Ponasttrg. 
1820. 

SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF 
AVENEL. 

ON TWEED RIVER. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 
Both current and ripple are dancing m light. 
We have roused the night raven, I heard him 

croak, 
As we plashed along beneath the oak 
That flings its broad branches so far and 

so wide. 
Their shadows are dancing in midst of the 

tide. 
" Who wakens my nestlings ? " the raven he 

said, 
" My beak shall ere morn in his blood be 

red! 
For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal, 
And I'll have my share with the pike and the 

eel." 

II. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines briglit, 
There's a golden gleam on the distant 

height : 
There's a silver shower on the alders dank, 
And the droopmg willows that wave on the 

bank, 
I see the Abbey, both turret and tower, 
It is all astir for the vesper hour; 
The Monks for the chapel are leaving each 

cell, 
But Where's Father Philip should toll the 

bell.^ 

Tir. 
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 
Downward we drift through shadow and 

light; 
Under yon rock the eddies sleep, 
Calm and silent, dark and deep. 
The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless 

pool. 
He has lighted his candle of death and of 

dool: 
Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to see 
How he gapes and glares with his eyes on 

thee 1 



IV. 



Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye 

to-night ? * 
A man of mean or a man of might ? 
Is it layman or priest that mustfioat in your 

cove. 
Or lover who crosses to visit his love .' 
Hark ! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we 

pass'd, — 
" God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd the 

bridge fast ! 
All that come to my cove are sunk, 
Priest or layman, lover or monk." 



Landed— landed 1 the black booth hath 

won, 
Else had you seen Berwick with morning 

sun! 
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be, 
I:'"or seldom they land that go swimming 

with me. — Chap. v. 

TO THE SUB-PRIOR. 

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you 

ride. 
With your mule so fair, and your mantle so 

wide; 
But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er 

hill, 
There is one that has warrant to wait on you 

still. 

Back, back, 
The volume black ! 
I have a warrant to carry it back. 

What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but 

here 
To conjure a book from a dead woman's 

bier ? 
Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, 
Ride back with the book, or you'll pay foi 

your prize. 

Back, back, 

There's death in the track ! 
In the name of my master, 1 bid thee beat 

back. 
" In the name of my Master," said the 
astonished Monk, " that name befcre which 
all things created tremble, I conjure theft 
to say what thou art that hauntest mt 
thus?" 

The same voice replied, — 
That which is neither ill or well, 
That which belongs not to heaven nor to 

hell. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



425 



A vrreath of the mist, a bubble of the 

stream, 
*Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping 
dream ; 

A form that meii spy 
With the half-shut eye 
Tn the beams of the setting sun, am I. 

Vainly, Sir Prior, vvouldst thou bar me my 
right! 

Like the star when it shoots, 1 can dart 
through the night ; 

I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the 
air, 

And travel the world with the bonny night- 
mare. 

Again, again, 

At the crook of the glen, 

Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee 
again. 



Men of sfood are bold as sackless * 
Men of rude are wild and reckless, 

Lie thou still 

In the nook of the hill, 
For those be before thee that wish thee ill. 
Chap. ix. 

HALBERT'S INVOCATION. 

Thrice to the holly brake- 
Thrice to the well :— 

I bid thee awake, 

White Maid of Avenel 1 

Noon gleams on the Lake- 
Noon glows on the Fell- 
Wake thee, O wake, 
White Maid of Avenel. 

TO HALBERT. 

Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou 

call nie? 
Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal 

thee 1 
He that seeks to deal with us must know 
^ nor fear nor failing; 
To coward and churl our speech is dark, our 

gifts are unavailing. 
The breeze tiiat brought me hither now must 

sweep Egyptian ground, 
The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is 

bound: 
The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze 

sighs for my stay. 
For I must sail a thousand miles before the 

close of day. 



* .SrtC/lvVii— Innoceiu. 



What I am I must not show — 
What I am thou couldst not know- 
Something betwixt heaven and hell — 
Something that neither stood nor fell — 
Something that through thy wit or will 
May work thee good— may\vork thee ill. 
Neither substance quite, nor shadow, 
Haunting lonely moors and meadow, 
Dancing by the haunted spring, 
Riding on the whirlwind's wing ; 
Aping in fantastic fashion 
Every change of human passion, 
While o'er our frozen minds they pass, 
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass. 
Wayward, fickle, is our mood, 
Hovering betwixt bad and good, 
Happier than brief-dated man, 
Living ten times o'er his span j 
Far less happy, for we have 
Help nor hope beyond the gravel 
Man awakes to joy or sorrow ; 
Ours the sleep tliat knows no morrow. 
This is all that 1 can show — 
This is all that thou may'st know. 



Ay ! and I taught thee the word and the 

spell. 
To waken me here by the Fairies' Well, 
But thou hast loved the heron and hawk. 
More than to seek my haunted walk ; 
And thou hast loved the lance and Ihs 

sv/ord. 
More than good text and holy word ; 
And thou hast loved the deer to track. 
More than the lines and the letters black ; 
And thou art a ranger of moss and wood, 
And scornest the nurture of gentle blood. 



Thy craven fear my truth accused. 

Thine idlehood my trust abused \ 

He that drav/s to harbor late, 

Must sleep witliout, or burst the gate. 

There is a star for thee which burn'd, 

Its influence wanes, its course is turn'd j 

Val .ur and constancy alone 

Can bring thee back the chance that's flov/n 



Within that awful volume lies 
The mystery of mysteries ! 
Happiest they of human race, 
To whom God has granted grace 
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, 
To lift the latch, and force the way ; 
And better had they ne'er been born, 
Who read to doubt, or read to ecorn. 



426 



SCO TT 'S FOE TIC A L IVOR KS. 



Many a fathom dark and deep 
I have laid the book to sleep ; 
Ethereal fires around it glowing- 
Ethereal music ever flowing — 

The sacred pledge of Heav'n 
All things revere. 
Each in his sphere, 

Save man for whom 'twas gi'vn •. 
Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy 
Things ne'er seen by mortal eye. 



Fearest thou to go with me ? 
Still it is free to thee 

A peasant to dwell ; 
Thou may'st drive the dull steer, 
And chase the king's deer, 
But never more come near 

This haunted well. 



Here lies the volume thou boldly hast 

sought ; 
iTouch it, and take it, 'twill dearly be 

bought, 



Rash thy deed, 
Mortal weed 
To mortal flames applying ; . 
Rasher trust 
Has thing of dust, 
On his own weak worth relying : 
Strip thee of such fences vain, 
Strip, and prove thy luck again. 



Mortal warp and mortal woof 
Cannot break this charmed roof, 
All that mortal art hath wrought 
In our cell returns to nought. 
The molten gold returns to clay, 
The polish'd diamond melts away : 
All is alter'd, all is flown. 
Nought stands fast but truth alone. 
Not for that thy quest give o'er ; 
Courage ! prove thy chance once more. 



Alas! alas! 

Not ours the grace 

These holy characters to trace ; 

Idle forms of painted air, 

Not to us is given to share 
The boon bestow'd on Adam's race. 

With patience bide, 

Heaven will provide 
The fitting time, the fitting guide. 

Chap. xii. 



SONGS 
IN halbert's second interview with 

THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL. 

This is the day when the fairy kind 
Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot. 
And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing 

wind. 
And the mermaiden weeps in her crystal 

grot ; 
For this is a day that the deed was wrought, 
In which we have neither part nor share. 
For the children of clay was salvation 

bought. 
But not for the forms of sea or air ! 
And ever the mortal is most forlorn, 
Who meeteth our race on the Friday mora^ 



Daring youth ! for thee it is well. 
Here calhng me in haunted dell, 
That thy heart has not quail'd. 
Nor thy courage fail'd, 
And that thou couldst brook 
The angry look 
Of Hrrof Avenel. 
Did one limb shiver. 
Or an eyelid quiver, 
Thou wert lost forever. 



Thoiigli Tin formM from the ether blue, 
And my blood is of the unfallen dev/. 
And thou art framed of mud and du«t< 
'Tis thine to speak, reply I must 



A mightier wizard far than I 

Wields o'er the universe ins power j 
Him owns the eagle in the sky, 

Tlie turtle in the bower. 
Changeful in shape, yet mightiest stiU, 
He' wields the heart of man at will, ' 
From ill to good, from good to ill. 

In cot and castle-tower. 



Ask thy heart, whose secret cell 
Is fill'd with Mary Avenel ! 
Ask thy pride, why scornful look 
In Mary's view it will not brook.'' 
Ask it, why thou seek'st to rise 
Among the mighty and the wise, — 
Why thou spurn'st thy lowly lot,— 
Why thy pastimes are forgot, — 
Why thou wouldst in bloody strife 
Mend thy luck or loose thy life ? 
Ask thy heart, and it shall tell, 



MISCELLANEOUS FORMS, 



427 



Sighing from its secret cell 
'Tis for Mary Avenel. 



Do not ask me ; 

On doubts like these tliou canst not task me. 

We only see the passing shoAv 

Of human passions ebb and flow ; 

And view the pageant's idle glance 

As mortals eye the northern dance, 

When thousand streamers flashing bright, 

Career it o'er the biow of night, 

And gazers mark their cliangeful gleams^ 

But feel no influence from their beams. 



By ties mysterious link'd, our fated race 
Holds strange connection with the sons of 

men. 
The star that rose upon the House of 

Avenel, 
When Norman Ulric first assumed the 

name, 
That star, when culminating in its orbit, 
Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond 

dew. 
And this bright font received it — and a 

Spirit 
Rose from the fountain, and her date of 

life 
Hath co-existence with the House of 

Avenel 
And with the star that rules it. 



Look on my girdle — on this thread of 

gold— 
'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, 
And, but there is a spell on't, would not 

bind, 
Light as they are, the folds of my thin 

robe. 
But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive 

chain, 
Such as might bind the champion of the 

Jews 
Even v/hen his locks were longest — it 

hath dwindled. 
Hath 'minished in its substance and its 

strength, 
As sank the greatness of the House of 

Avenel. 
When this frail thread gives way, I to the 

elements 
Resign the principles of life they lent me. 
Ask ma no more of this I— the stars for- 
bid it. 



Dim burns the once bright star of Avenel, 
Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh, 
And the o'er-wearied warder leaves the light- 
house ; 
There is an influence sorrowful and fearful. 
That dogs its dovmward course. Disastrous 

passion, 
Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect 
That lowers upon its fortunes. 

Complain not of me, child of clay. 

If to thy harm I yield the way. 

We, who soar thy sphere above. 

Know not aught of hate or love ; 

As will or wisdom rules thy mood, 

My gifts to evil turn or good. — ChaJ. xvii. 

THE WHITE LADY TO MARY 
AVENEL. 

Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living 
Dead, 
Whose eyes shall commune with the Dead 
Alive, 
Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot Her, hid 
The Word, the Law, the Path which thou 
dost strive 
To find, and canst not find. — Could Spirits 
shed 
Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep, 
Showing the road which I shall never tread, 
Though my foot points it. — Sleep, eternal 
sleep. 
Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my 
lot!— 
But do not thou at human ills repine ; 
Secure their lies full guerdon in this spot 
For all the woes that wait frail Adam's 
line — 
Stoop then and make it yours. — I may not 
make it mine 1 — Chap. xxx. 

THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD 
GLENDENNING. 

Thou who seek'st my fountam lone. 
With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st noS 

own ; 
Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad, 
When most his brow seem'd dark and sa4 \ 
Hie thee back, thou find'st not here 
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier ; 
The Dead Alive is gone and fled— 
Go thou, and join the Living Dead ! 

The Living Dead, whose sober brow 

Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now, 



428 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Whose hearts within are seldom cured 
Of passions by their vows abjured ; 
Where, under sad and solemn show, 
Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow 
Seek the convent's vaulted room, 
Prayer and vigil be thou doom ; 
Doff the green and don the gray, 
To the cloister hence away ! — Chap, xxxii. 

THE WHITE LADY'S FAREWELL. 

Fare thee well, thou Holly green ! 

Thou shalt seldom now be seen, 

With all thy glittering garlands bending, 

As to greet my slow descending, 

Startling the bewilder'd hind, 

Who sees thee wave without a v.'ind. 

Farewell, Fountain ! now not long 
Shalt thou murmur to my song. 
While thy crystal bubbles glancing, 
Keep the time in mystic dancing, 
Kise and swell, are burst and lost, 
Like mortal schemes by fortune cross' d. 

The knot of fate at length is tied. 
The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride ! 
Vainly did my magic sleight 
Send the lover from her sight ; 
Wither bush, and perish v/ell, 
Fall'n is lofty Avenel ! — Chap, xxx 

BORDER BALLAD. 



March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in 
order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddisdale, 
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the 
Border. 

Many a banner spread. 
Flutters above your head. 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 
Mount and make ready then. 
Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish 
glory. 

II. 
Come from the hills where your hirsels are 
grazing. 
Come from the glen of the buck and the 
roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is 
blazing. 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the 
bow 



Trumpets are sounding. 
War-steeds are bounding, 
Stand to your arms, and march in good 
order ; 

England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray, 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the 
Border. — Chap, xxv. 



MOTTOES. 



AY ! the Monks, the Monks, they did the 

mischief ! 
Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition 
Of a most gross and superstitious age^ — 
May He be praised that sent the healthful 

tempest, 
Andscatter'd all these pestilential vapors ; 
But that we owed them all to yonder Harlot 
Throned on the seven hills with her cup of 

gold, 

1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger, 
That old Moll White took wing with cat and 

broomstick, 
And raised the last night's tliAmder. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. II. 

In yon lone vale his early you.th was bred. 
Not solitary then — the bugle-horn 
Of fell Alecto often waked its windings, 
From where the brook jonis the majestic 

river. 
To the wild northern bog, the curlew's haunt, 
Where oozes forth its first and feeble 

streamlet.— Old Play 

CHAP. VIII. 

Nay, dally not with time, tne wise nian's 

treasure. 
Though fools are lavish on't — the fatal 

Fisher 
Hooks souls, while we waste moments 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XI. 

You call this education, do you not ? 
Why 'tis the forced march of a herd of bul- 
locks 
Before a shouting drover. The glad van 
Move on at ease, and pause a while to snatch 
A passing morsel from the dewy greensv.'ard, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



429 



While all the blows, the oaths, the indigna- 
tion, 
Fall on the croupe of tlie ill-fated laggard 
That cripples in the rear. — OLdPlay. 

CHAP. XII 

There's something in that ancient supersti- 
tion, 

Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. 

TJie spring that, with its thousand crystal 
bubbles. 

Bursts fiom the bosom of some desert rock 

in secret solitude, may well be deem'd 

Tiie haunt of somethmg purer, more re- 
fined. 

And mightier than ourselves.— OA/ Flay. 

CHAP XIV. 

Nay, let me have the friends who eat my 

victuals, 
A.S various as my dishes. The feast's 

naught. 
Where one huge plate predominates. — John 

Plaintext, 
He shall be mighty beef, our English staple ; 
The worthy Alderman, a butter'd dumpling •, 
Yon pair of whisl<er'd Cornets, ruffs and 

reeves ; 
Their friend the Dandy, a green goose in 

sippets. 
And so the board is spread at once and 

fill'd 
On the same principle— Variety. 

New Play. 

CHAP. XV. 

He strikes no coin, 'tis true, but coins new 

phrases, 
And vends them forth as knaves vend 

gilded counters, 
Which wise men scorn, and fools accept in 

payment. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIX. 

■ low choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth 

and lionor ; 
There lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee 

through I 

The dance of youth, and the turmoil of \ 

manhood. i 

Yet leave enough for age's chimney-corner ; j 
But an thou grasp to it, farewell Ambition ! 1 
Farewell each hope of bettering thy con- j 

dition. 



And raising thy low rank above the churls 
That till the earth for bread '.—Old Play. 

CHAP. XXI. 

Indifferent, but indifferent — pshaw ! he 
doth it not 

Like one who is his craft's master — ne'er- 
theless 

I have seen a clown confer a bloody cox- 
comb 

On one who was a master of defence. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXII. 

Yes, life hath left him — every busy thought, 
Each fiery passion, every strong affection, 
The sense of outward ill and inward sor- 
row, 
Are fled at once from the pale trunk before 

me ; 
And 1 have given that which spoke and 

moved. 
Thought, acted, suffer'd, as a living man. 
To be a ghastly form of bloody clay, 
j Soon the foul food for reptiles. — OA/ Play. 

CH.\P. XXIIl. 

'Tis when the wound is stiffening with the 

cold. 
The warrior first feels pain — 'tis when the 

heat 
And fiery fever of his soul is past, 
The sinner feels remorse. — Old Play 

CHAP. XXIV. 

I'll walk on tiptoe ; arm my eye with 

caution, 
My heart with courage, and my hand with 

weapon, 
Like him who ventures on a lion's den. 



Old Play. 



CHAP. XXVII. 



Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, 'tis hard reck- 

oning. 
That I, with every odds of birth and barony, 
Should be detain'd here for the casual 

death 
Of a wild forester, whose utmost having 
Is but the brazen buckle of the belt 
"n which he sticks his hedge-knife. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

You call it an ill angel — it may be so 

But sure I am, among the rank?, which feU, 



i^o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



'Tis the first fiend e'er counsell'd man to 

rise, 
And win the bliss the sprite himself had 

forfeited.— O/^/ Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

At school I knew him — a sharp-witted 

youth, 
Grave, thoughtful, and reserved amongst his 

mates, 
Turning the hours of sport and food to 

labor, 
Starving his body to inform his mind. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXUI. 

Now on my faith this gear is all entangled. 
Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy knitter, 
Dragg'd by the frolic kitten through the 

cabin, 
While the good dame sits nodding o'er the 

fire — 
Masters, attend ; 'twill crave some skill to 

clear \t--Old Play. 

CHAP XXXIV. 

It is not texts will do it— Church artillery 

Are silenced soon by real ordnance. 

And canons are but vain opposed to 

cannon. 
Go, coin your crosier, melt your church 

plate down, 
Bid the starved soldiers banquet in your 

halls. 
And quaff your long saved hogsheads — 

Turn them out 
Thus primed with your good cheer, to guard 

your wall, 
And they will venture for 't. — Old Play. 



1820. 

MOTTOES, 



CHAP. V. 

In the wild storm ; 

The seaman hews his mast down, and the 
merchant 

Heaves to the billows wares he once deem'd 
precious : 

So prince and peer, 'mid popular conten- 
tions. 

Cast off their favorites. —O/o' Play. 



CHAP. VI. 

Thou hast each secret of the householci. 

Francis 
I dare be sworn thou hast been in the 

buttery 
Steeping tliy curious humor in fat ale, 
And in the butler's tattle— ay, or chattmg 
With the glib waitjug-woman o'er her 

comfits — 
These bear the key to eacb. domestic 

mystery.— CJ/cf Play. 

CHAP. vin. 
The sacred tapers' lights are gene, 
Gray moss has clad the altar stone, 
The holy image iS o'erthrown, 

The bell has ceased to tell. 
The long-ribb'd aisles are burst and shrunk, 
The holy shrines to ruin sunk, 
Departed is the pious monk, 

God's blessing on his soul i — Rediviva. 

CHAP. XI 

Life hath its May, and all is mirthful then : 
The woods are vocal, and the flowers all 

odor ; 
Its very blast has mirth m't, — and the 

maidens, 
The while they don their cloaks to skreen 

■ their kirtles. 
Laugh at the rain that wets them. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XII. 

Nay, hear me, brother — I am elder, wiser, 
And holier than thou; and age, and 

wisdom. 
And holiness, have peremptory claims, 
And will be listen'd to.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

Not the wild billow, when it breaks its 
barrier— 

Not the wild wind, escaping from its 
cavern, — 

Not the wild fiend, that mingles both to- 
gether. 

And pours their rage upon the ripening- 
harvest, 

Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful 
meeting — 

Comic, yet fearful — droll, and yet destruc- 
tive. — 77ie Conspiracy. 

CHAP. XVI. 

Youth ! thou wear'st to manhood now, 
Darker lip and darker brow. 
Statelier step, more pensive mien, 
In thy face and gait are seen : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



43 » 



Thou must now brook midnight watches, 
Take thy food and sport by snatches ! 
For the gambol and the jest, 
Thou wert wont to love the best, 
Graver follies must thou follow, 
But as senseless, false, and hollow. 

Life, a Poem. 

CHAP XiX 

It is and is not — 'tis the thing I sought 

for. 
Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'd my fame 

and life for. 
And yet it is not — no more than the 

shadow 
Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polish'd 

mirror, 
Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living 

substance 
Which it presents in form and lineament. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIII. 

Give me a morsel on the greensward rather, 

Coarse as you will the cooking — Let the 
fresh spring, 

Bubble beside my napkin — and the free 
birds, 

Twittering and chirping, hop from bough to 
bough. 

To claim the crumbs I leave for per- 
quisites — 

Your prison-feasts I like not. 

The Woodman, a Drama. 

CHAP, XXIV. 

'Tis a weary life this 

Vaults overhead, and grates and bars around 
me, 

And my sad hours spent with as sad com- 
panions. 

Whose thoughts are brooding o'er their own 
mischances, 

Far, far too deeply to take part in mine. 
The Woodsman. 

CHAP, XXV. 

And when Love's torch hath set the heart 

in flame. 
Comes Seignor Reason, with his saws and 

cautions, 
Giving such aid as the old gray-beard 

Sexton, 
Who from the church-vault drags his crazy 

engine, 
To ply its dribbling ineffectual streamlet 
Against a conflagration. — Old Play. 



CHAP xxvnr. 

Yes, it is she whose eyes looked on thy 
childhood, 

And watch'd with trembling hope thy dav.'n 
of youth. 

That now with these same eye-balls, dimm'd 
with age, 

And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dis- 
honor — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX, 

In some breasts passion lies conceal'd and 

silent, 
Like war's swart powder in a castle vault, 
Until occasion, like the linstock, hghts it ; 
Then comes at once the lightning and tha 

thunder, 
And distant echoes tell that all is rent 

asunder.— O/^ Play. 



1821. 

GOLDTHRED'S SONG. 

Of all the birds on bush or tree, 

Cemmend me to the owl. 
Since he may best ensample be 

To those the cup that trowl. 
For when the sun hath left the west. 
He choses the tree that he loves the best, 
And he whoops out his song, and he laughs 

at his jest. 
Then, though hours be late, and weather 

foul, 
We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny 

ow'l. 

The lark is bnt a bumpkin fowl, 

He sleeps i.i his nest till morn ; 
But my blessing upon the jolly owl, 
That all night blows his horn. 
Then up with your cup till you stagger in 

speech, 
And match me this catch, till you swagger 

and screech, 
And drink till you wink, my merry men 

each ; 
For, though hours be late, and weather be 

foul. 
We'll drink to the health of the bonny, 
' bonny owl, — Chap. ii. 



432 



scorrs poetical woih<s. 



MOTTOES. 

CHAP. IV. 

Not serve hvo masters.'' — Here's a youth 

will try it — 
Would fain serve God, yet give the devil his 

due; 
Says grace before he doth a deed of vil- 

lany, 
And returns his thanks devoutly when 'tis 

zcXtdi.— Old Play. 

CHAP VII, 

This is He 

Who rides on the court-gale; controls its 
tides ; 

Knows all their secret shoals and fatal 
eddies ; 

Whose frown abases, and whose smile 
exalts. 

He shines like any rainbow — and, per- 
chance, 

His colors are as transient. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XTV. 

This is rare news thou tell'st me, my good 

fellow ; 
There are two bulls fierce battling on the 

green 
For one fair heifer— if the-one goes down, 
The dale will be more peaceful, and the 

herd, 
Which have small interest in their brulzie- 

ment, 
M?.y pasture there in peace. — Old Play, 

CHAP. XXIII. 
New Gcd be good tj me in this wild pil- 

gnmage 1 
All hope in human aid I cast behind me. 
Oh, who would be a woman? who that 

fool, 
A weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman ? 
She hath H"ard measure still where she 

hopes Kindest, 
And all her bounties only make ingrates. 
Love's Pilgrimage. 

CHAP. XXV. 

Hark ! the be'iU summon, and the bugle 

calls, 
But she the fairest answers not ; the tide 
Of nobles and uf ladies throngs the halls. 
But she the loveliest must in secret hide. 
What eyes were thine, proud Prince, which 

in the gleam 
Of yon gay meteor^ lost that better sense, 



That o'er the glow-worm doth the star 

esteem, 
And merit's modest blush o'er courtly inso" 
lence. — The Glass Slipper. 

CHAP. XXVIII. 

What, rnan, ne'er lack a draught, when the 

full can 
Stands at thine elbow- and craves empty- 
ing, 
Nay, fear not me, for I have no delight 
To watch men's vices, since I have myself 
Of virtue nought to boast of —I'm a 

striker, 
Would have the world strike with me, pell- 
mell, all. — Pandcemonium. 

CHAP. XXXII. 

The wisest sovereigns err like priv-at? men> 
And royal hand has sometimes laid the 

sword 
Of chivalry upon a worthless shoulder. 
Which better had been branded by the hang- 
man. 
What then .? Kings do their best, — and they 

and we 
Must answer for the intent, and not the 
event. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XL. 
High o'er the eastern steep the sun is 

beaming, 
And darkness flies with her deceitful 

shadows ; 
So truth prevails o'er falsehood. 

Old Play. 



\ 



1S21. 

THE SONG OF THE TEMPEST. 



Stern eagle of the far north-west, 

Thou that bearest in thy grasp the ihuia. 

derbolt, 
Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to 

madness, 
Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the scat- 

terer of navies. 
Amidst the scream of thy rage. 
Amidst the rushing of thy onward wings, 
Though thy scream be loud as the cry of a 

perishing nation. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



433 



Though the rushing of thy wings be like the 

roar of ten thousand waves, 
Yet hear, in thine ire and thy liaste, 
Hear thou the voice of the Reiui-liennar. 

II. 

Thou hast met the pine-trees of Drontheim, 
Their dark green heads He prostrate beside 

their uprooted stems ; 
Thou hast met the rider of the ocean, 
The tall, the strong bark of the fearless 

rover, 
And she has struck to thee the topsail 
That she had not vail'd to a royal armada. 
Thou hast met the tower that bears its crest 

among the clouds, 
The battled massive tower of the Jarl of 

former days, 
And the cope-stone of the turret 
Is lying upon its hospitable hearth ; 
But thou too shalt stoop, proud compeller of 

clouds, 
When thou hearest the voice of the Reim- 

kennar. 

III. 
There are verses that can stop the stag in 

the forest, 
Ay, when the dark-color'd dog is opening on 

his track ; 
There are verses can make the wild hawk 

pause on the wing, 
Like the falcon that wears the hood and the 

jesses, 
And who knows the shrill whistle of the 

fowler. 
Thou who canst mock at the scream of the 

drowning mariner, 
And the crash of the ravaged forest. 
And the groan of the overwhelmed crowds, 
When the church hath fallen in the moment 

of prayer \ 
There are sounds which thou also must list, 
When they are chanted by the voice of the 

Reira-kennar. 

IV. 

Enough of woe hast thou wrouglit on the 

ocean, 
The widows wring their hands on the 

beach ; 
Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the 

land, 
The husbandman folds his arms in despair ; 
Cease thou the waving of thy pinions, 
Let the ocean repose in her dark strength. 
28 



Cease thou the flashing of thine eye, 

Let the thunderbolt sleep in the armory of 

Odin ; 
Be thou still at my biddir -, viewless racer 

of the north-western heaven,— 
Sleep thou at the voice of Noma the Reim- 

kennar. 



Eagle of the far north-western waters, 
Thou hast heard the voice of the Reim- 

kennar, 
Thou hast closed thy wide sails at her 

bidding, 
And folded them in ceace by thy side. 
INIy blessing be on thy retiring patli ; 
When thou stoopest from thy place on high, 
Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of tlie 

unknown ocean, 
Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee; 
Eagle of the north-west, thou hast lieard fhe 

voice of the Reim-kennar, 

Chap. vi. 

CLAUD HALCRvO'S SONG. 

MARY. 

Farewell to Northmaven, 

Gray Hillswicke, tareweii 1 
To the calms of thy haven, 

The storms on thy fell— - 
To each breeze that can vaiy 

The mood of thy main, 
And to thee, bonny Mary! 

We meet not agais ] 

Farewell the wild ferry. 
Which Hacon could brave, 

When the peaks of the Skerry- 
Were w^hite in the wave. 

There's a maid may look over 
These wild waves in vain, — 

For the skiff of her lover — 
He comes not again 1 

The vows thou hast broke. 

On the wild currents fling them \ 
On the quicksand and rock 

Let the mermaidens sing thera. 
New sv/eetness they'll give her 

Bewildering strain ; 
But there's one who will never 

Believe them again. 

O were there an island, 

Though ever so wild. 
Where woman could smile, and 

No man be beguiled — 



'434 



scorrs poetical works. 



Too tempting a snare 

To poor mortals were given ; 
And the hope would fix there, 

That should anchor in heaven. 

ChaJ). xii. 



THE SONG OF HAROLD 
HARFAGER. 

The sun is rising dimly red, 
The wind is wailing low and dread ; 
From his diff the eagle sallies, 
Leaves the wc>lf his darksome valleys ; 
In the midst the ravens hover. 
Peep the wild dogs from the cover, 
Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling, 
Each in his wild accents telling, 
" Soon we feast on dead and dying, 
Fair-hair'd Harold's flag is flying." 

Many a crest on air is streaming, 
Many a helmet darkly gleaming, 
^lany an arm the axe uprears, 
Doom'd to hew the wood of spears. 
All along the crowded ranks 
Horses neigh and armor clanks; 
Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing, 
Louder still the bard is singing, 
" Gather footmen, gather horsemen, 
To the field, ye valiant Norsemen I 

" Halt ye not for food or slumber. 
View not vantage, count not number: 
Jolly reapers, forward still, 
Grow the crop on vale or hill. 
Thick or scatter'd, stiff or lithe, 
'(t shall down before the scythe. 
Forward with your sickles bright, 
Reap the harvest of the fight. — 
Onward footmen, onward horsemen. 
To the charge, ye gallant Norsemen ! 

" Fatal Choosers of the Slaughter, 
O'er you hovers Odin's daughter ; 
'Hear the choice she spreads before ye, — 
Victory, and wealth, and glory ; 
Oi old Valhalla's roaring hail, 
Her ever-circling mead and ale, 
Where for eternity unite 
The joys of wassail and of fight. 
Headlong forward, foot and horsemen, 
Charge and fight, and die like Ncrse- 
menl"-<7//<2/ xv. 



SONG OF THE MERMAIDS AND 

MERMEN. 

MERMAID. 

Fathoms deep beneath the wave, 

Stringing beads of glistering pearl, 
Singing the achievements brave 

Of many an old Norwegian earl ; 
Dwelling where the tempest's raving 

Falls as light upon our ear 
As the sigh of lover, craving 

Pity from his lady dear, 
Children of wild Thule, we. 
From the deep caves of the sea, 
As the lark springs from the lea, 
Hither come, to share your glee. 



From reining of the water horse, 

That bounded till the waves were foam 
ing, 
Watching the infant tempest's course. 

Chasing the sea-snake in his roaming , 
From winding charge-notes on the shell, 

When the huge whale and swordfish duei. 
Or tolling shroudless seamen's knell, 

When the winds and waves are cruel ; 
Children of wild Thule, we 
Have plough'd such furrows on the sea, 
As the steer draws on the lea, 
And hither we com : to share your glee. 

MERMAIDS AND MERMEN. 

We heard 3''ou ir cur twilight caves, 

A hundred fathom deep below, 
Foi notes of icy can pierce the waves, 

That drown each sound of war and woe. 
Those who dweii beneath the sea 

Love the sens of Thule well • 
Thus, to aid your mirth bring we 

Dance, and song, and sounding sheU. 
Children of dark Thule, know. 
Those who dwell by haaf and voe, 
Where ycur daring shallops row, 
Come to share the festal show. 

Chap xvi 

NORNA'S SONG. 

For leagues along the watery way, 

Tiirough gulf and stream my course lias 
been ; 

The billows know my Runic lay. 

And smooth their crests to silent green. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS- 



435 



The billows know my Runic lay,— 

The gulf grows smooth, the stream is 
still , 

But human hearts, more wild than they, 
Know but the rule of wayward will. 

One hour is mine, in all the year, 
To tell my woes, — and one alone : 

When gleams this magic lamp 'tis here, — 
When dies the mystic light, 'tis gone. 

Daughters' of northern Magnus, hail! 

The lamp is lit, the flame is clear,— 
To you I come to tell my tale, 

Awake, arise, my tale to hear ! 

Chap. xix. 

CLAUD HALCRO AND NORNA. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 

Mother darksome, Mother dread, 

Dweller of the Fitful-head, 

Thou canst see what deeds are done 

Under the never-settmg sun. 

Look through sleet, and look through frost, 

Look to Greenland's caves and coast, — 

By the ice-berg is a sail 

Chasing of the swarthy whale ; 

Mother doubtful, Mother dread. 

Tell us, has the good ship sped ? 

NORNA. 

The thought of the aged is ever on gear, — 

On his hshing, his furrow, his flock, and his 
steer ; 

But thrive may his fishing, flock, furrow, and 
herd, 

While the aged for anguish shall tear his 
gray beard, 

The "ship, well-laden as baik need be, 

Lies deep in the furrow of the Iceland 
sea; — 

The breeze for Zetland blows fair and soft, 

And gayly the garland is fluttering aloft ; 

Seven good fishes have spouted their last. 

And their jaw-bones are hanging to yard and 

' mast ; 

Two are for Lerwick, and two for Kirk- 
wall, — 

Three for Burgh Westra, the choicest of all. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 

Mother doubtful. Mother dread! 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
Thou hast conn'd full many a rhyme, 
That lives upon the surge of time: 
Tell me, shall my lays be sung, 
Like Hacon's of the golden tongue. 



Long attex Halcro's dead ^nd gone ? 
Or; shall Hialtland's minstrel own 
One note to rival glorious John ? 

NORNA. 

The infant loves the rattle's noise; 

Age, double childhood, hath its toys ; 

But different far the descant rings, 

As strikes a different hand the strings. 

The eagle mounts the polar sky— 

The Imber-goose, unskill'd to fly, ' 

Must be content to glide along. 

Where seal and sea-dog list his song. 

CLAUD rfALCRO. 

Be mine the Imber-goose to play, 
And haunt long cave and silent bay ; 
The archer's aim so shall 1 shun — 
So shall I 'scape the levell'd gun- 
Content my verses' tuneless jingle 
With Thule's sounding tides to mingle, 
While, to the ear of wondering wight. 
Upon the distant headland's height, 
Soften'd by murmur of the sea. 
The ruds sounds seem like harmony ! 
****** 

Mother doubtful, Mother dread. 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
A gallant bark from far abroad, 
Saint Magnus hath her in his road. 
With guns and firelocks not a few — 
A silken and a scarlet crew. 
Deep stored with merchandise, 
Of gold, and goods of rare device — 
What interest hath our comrade bold 
In bark and crew, in goods and gold ? 

NORNA, 

Gold is ruddy, fair, and free, 

Blood is crimson, and dark to see ; 

I look'd out on Saint Magnus Bay, 

And 1 saw a falcon that struck her prey, 

A gobbet of fish in her beak she bore. 

And talons and singles are dripping with 

gore ; — 
Let him that asks after them look on his 

hand. 
And if there is blood on't, he's one of their 

band. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 

Mother doubtful, Mother dread, 

Dweller of the Fitful-head, 

Well thou know'st it is thy task 

To tell what Beauty will not ask ;— _ 

Then steep thy words in wine and milk, 

And weave a doom of gold and silk,— 



43^ 



SC07r.S POETICAL WORKS. 



For we would know, shall Brenda prove 
In love_j and happy in her love? 

NORNA. 

Untouclt'd by love, the maiden's breast 
Is like the snow on Rona's crest, 
High seated in the middle sky, 
In bright and barren purity ; 
But by the sunbeam gently kiss'd, 
Scarce by the gazing eye 'tis miss'd, 
Ere down the lonely valley stealing, 
Fresh grass and growth its course reveal- 
ing, » . 
It cheers tha flock, revives the flower. 
And decks some happy shepherd's bower. 

MAGNUS TROIL. 

Mother, speak, and do not tarry, 
Here's a maiden fain would marry; 
Shall she marry, ay or not? 
If she marry, what's her lot ? 



Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast 
Is like the snow on Rona's crest ;. 
So pure, so free from earthly dye. 
It seems, whilst leaning on the sky. 
Part of tlie heaven to which 'tis nigh ; 
But passion, like the wild March rain. 
May soil the wreath with many a stain. 
We gaze— the lovely vision's gone — 
A torrent fills the bed of stone, 
That hurrying to destruction's shock, 
Leaps headlong from the lofty rock. 

Chap. xxi. 

SONG OF THE ZETLAND 
FISHERMAN. 

Farewell, merry maidens, to song and to 

laugh, 
For the brave lads of Westra are bound to 

the Haaf 
And we must have labor, and hunger and 

pain, 
F.re we dance with the maids of Dunrossness 

asjain. 



our trim boats of Noroway 
waves, with the por- 



tor now, m 

deal, 
We must dance on the 

poise and seal I 
The breeze it shall pipe, so it pipe not too 

high, 
And the gull be our songstress whene'er she 

flits by. 



Sing on, my brave bird, while we follow, like 

thee. 
By bank, shoal, and quicksand, the swarms 

of the sea ; 
And when twenty score fishes are straining 

our line. 
Sing louder, brave bird, for their spoils shall 

be thine. 

We'll sing while we bait, and we'll sing while 

we haul. 
For the deeps of the Haaf have enough for 

us all : 
There is torsk for the gentle, and skate for 

the carle, 
And there's wealth for bold Magnus, the son 

of the earl. 

Huzza I my brave comrades, give way for 

the Haaf, 
We shall sooner come back to the dance and 

the laugh ; 
For life without mirth is a lamp without 

oil ; 
Then, mirth and long life to the bold Magn»s 

Troil 1 — Chap. xxii. 

CLEVELAND'S SONGS. 
1. 

Love wakes and weeps 

While Beauty sleeps 1 
for Music's softest number 

To prompt a theme, 

For Beauty's dream, 
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers 
11. 

Through groves of palm 

Sigh gales of balm, 
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling; 

While through the gloom 

Comes soft perfume. 
The distant beds of flowers revealing. 
III. 

O wake and live ! 

No dream can give 
A shadow'd bliss, the real excelling ; 

No longer sleep. 

From fattice peep. 
And list the tale that Love is telling. 

Farewell! farewell! the voice you hear, 
Has left its last soft tone with you,— 

Its next must join the seaward cheer, 
And shout among the shouting crew. 

The accents which 1 scarce could form 
Beneath your frown's cheek, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



437 



Must give the word above the storm, 
To cut the mast, and clear the wreck. 

The timid eye I dared not raise, — 

The hand, that shook when press'd to 
thine. 

Must point the guns upon the chase — 
Must bid tlie deadly cutlass shine. 

To all I love, or hope, or fear, 

Honor, or own, a long adieu ! 
To all that life has soft and dear, 

Farewell ! save memory of you ! 

CJiap. xxiii. 

CLAUD HALCRO'S VERSES. 
And you shall deal the funeral dole ; 

Ay, deal it, mother mine. 
To weary body, and to heavy soul, 

To white bread and the wine. 

And you shall deal my horses of pride ; 

Ay, deal tliem, mother mine ; 
And you shall deal my lands so wide. 

And deal my castles nine. 

But deal not vengeance for the deed, 

And deal not for the crime ; 
Thy body to its place, and the soul to 
Heaven's grace, 

And the rest in God's own time, 

NORNA'S INCANTATIONS. 

Champion, famed for warlike toil, 
Art thou silent, Ribolt Troil? 
Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones, 
Are leaving bare thy giant bones. 
Who dared touch the wild bear's skin 
Ye slumber'd on, while life was in ? — 
A woman now, or babe, may come 
And cast the covering from thy tomb. 

Yet be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight 

Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight ! 

I come not, with unhallow'd tread, 

To wake the slumbers of the dead, 

Or lay thy giant reliques bare ; 

But what I seek thou well canst spare. 

Be it to my hand allow'd 

To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud ; 

Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough 

To shield thy bones from weather rough. 

See, I draw my magic knife- 
Never, while thou vvert in life, 
Laidst thou still for sloth or fear. 
When point and edge were glittering near; 
See, the cerements now 1 sever — 
Waken now, or sleep forever I 



Thou wilt not wake — the deed is done . — 
The prize I sought is fairly worn. 

Thanks, Ribolt, thanks, — for this the sea 
Siiall smooth its ruffled crest for thee — 
And while afar its billows foam. 
Subside to peace near Ribolt's tomb. 
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks — for this the might 
Of wild winds raging at their height, 
When to thy place of slumber nigh. 
Shall soften to a lullaby. 

She, the dame of doubt and dread. 
Noma of the Fitful-head, 
Mighty in her own despite, — 
Miserable in her might ; 
In despair and frenzy i:reat. 
In her greatness desolate]; 
Wisest, wickedest who lives, — 
Well can keep the word she gives. 

Chap. XXV. 

[her interview with MINNA. J 

Thou, so needful, yet so dread. 
With cloudy crest, and wing of red 
Thou, without wliose genial breath 
The North would sleep the sleep of death ; 
Who deign'st to warm the cottage h.cartli, 
Yet hurl'st proud palaces to earth,-- 
Brightest, keenest of the Powers, 
Wnich form and rule this world of ours, 
With my rhyme of Runic, I 
Thank thee for thy agency. 



Old Reim-kennar, to thy art 
Mother Hertha sends her part ; 
She, whose gracious bounty gives 
Needful food for all that lives. 
From the deep mine of the North 
Came the mystic metal forth, 
Doom'd amidst disjointed stones, 
Long to cere a champion's bones, 
Disinhumed my charms to aid — 
Mother Earth, my thanks are paid. 



Girdle of our islands dear, 
Element of Water, hear ! 
Thou whose power can overwhelm 
Broken mounds and ruin'd realm 

On the lowly Belgian strand ; 
All thy fiercest range can never 
Of our soil a furlong sever 

From our rock-defended land ) 
Play then gently thou thy part, 
To assist old Noma's art. 



43S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Elements, each other greeting, 

Gifts and power attend your meeting ; 



Thou, that over billows dark, 
Safely send'st the fisher's bark, — 
(living him a path and motion 
Through the wilderness of ocean ; 
Thou, that when tlie billows brave ye, 
O'er the shelves canst drive the navy,- 
Didst thou chafe as one neglected. 
While thy brethren were respected? 
To appease thee, see, I tear 
This full grasp of grizzled hair ; 
Oft thy breath hath through it sung, 
Softening to my magic tongue,— 
Now, 'tis thine to bid it fly 
Through the wide expanse of sky, 
'Mid the countless swarms to sail 
■Of wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale ; 
Take thy portion and rejoice, — 
Spirit, thou hast heard my voice ! 



She who sits by haunted well, 

Is subject to the Nixies' spell * 

She who walks on lonely beach, 

To the Mermaid's charmed speech ; 

She who walks round ring of green, 

Offends the peevish Fairy Queen ; 

And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's 

cave, 
A weary weird of woe shall have. 

By rmg, by spring, by cave, by shore, 
Minna Troil has braved all this and more ; 
And yet hath the root of her sorrow and ill, 
A source that's more deep and more mys- 
tical still.— 
Thou art within a demon's hold, 
More wise than Helms, more strong than 

Trold. 
No siren sings so sweet as he, — 
No fay springs lighter on the lea ; 
No elfin power hath half the art, 
To soothe, to move, to wring the heart, — 
Life-blood from the cheek to drain. 
Drench the eye and dry the vein. 
Maiden, ere we farther go, 
Dost thou note me, ay or no ? 



I mark thee, my mother, both word, look 

and sign ; 
Speak on with thy riddle — to read it be 



NORNA. 

Mark me ! for the word I speak 

Shall bring the color to thy cheek. 

This laden heart, so light of cost, 

The symbol of treasure lost. 

Thou shalt wear in hope and in peace. 

That the cause of your sickness and sorrov? 

may cease. 
When crimson foot meets crimson hand 
In the Martyr's Aisle, and in Orknej^ 

land. 



Be patient, be patient; for Patience hath 

power 
To ward us in danger, like mantle in 

shower ; 
A fairy gift you best may hold 
In a chain of fairy gold ;— 
The chain and the gift are each a true 

token, 
That not without warrant old Noma has 

spoken ; 
But thy nearest and dearest must never 

behold them, 
Till time shall accomplish the truths I 

have told them.— C/^^/. xxviii, 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

'Tis not alone the scene— the man, A;i- 

selmo, 
The man finds sympathies in thesf> -mi^ 

wastes, 
And roughly tumbling seas, which faiiC5 

views 
And smoother waves deny him. 

Ancient Drama, 

CHAP. VII. 

She does no work by halves, yon ravijjg 

ocean , 
Engulphing those she strangles, her w:;;d 

womb 
Affords the mariners whom she hs.th deal! 

on, 
Their death at once, and sepulchre. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. IX. 

This is a gentle trader, and a prudent- 
He's no Autolycus, to blear your eye, 
With quips of worldly gauds and garK< . 

someness ; 
But seasons all his glittering merchandise 
With wholesome doctrine suited to the use, 
As men sauce goose with sage and rose- 
mary.— O/^ Play. 



MISCELLANEOUS FOEMS. 



439 



CHAP. XIV. 

IVe'Il keep our customs — what is law itself, 

But old establish'd custom? What re- 
ligion 

;i mean, with one-half of the men that 
use it), 

Save the good use and wont that carries 
them 

To worship how and where their fathers 
worshipp'd ? 

All things resolve in custom — we'll keep 
ours. — Old Play. 

CHa±'. XXIX. 

Ses yonder woman, whom our swains 

revere, 
And dread in secret, while they take her 

counsel 
When sweetheart shall be kind, or when 

cross dame shall die , 
Where lurks the thief who stole the silver 

tankard, 
And how the pestilent murrain may be 

cured ; 
This sage adviser's mad, stark mad, my 

friend ; 
Yet, in her madness, hath the art and 

cunning 
To wring fools' secrets from their inmost 

bosoms, • 
And pay inquirers with the coin they gave 

her.— O/c/ Play, 

CHAP, XXX. 

What ho, my jovial mates ! come on ! 
we'll frolic it 

Like fairies frisking in the merry moon- 
shine, 

Seen by the curtal friar, who, from some 
christening, 

Or some blithe bridal, hies belated cell- 
ward— 

He starts, and changes his bold bottle 
swagger 

To churchman's pace professional,— and, 
ransacking 

His treacherous memory for some holy 
hymn. 

Finds but the roundel of the midnight 
catch.- Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Parental love, my friend, has power o'er 

wisdom. 
And is the charm, which, like the falconer's 

lure, 



Can bring from heaven the highest soaring 

spirits. — 
So, when famed Prosper doff'd his magic 

robe, 
It was Miranda pluck'd it from his shoul' 

A&x^.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVII. 

Over the mountains, and under the waves, 
Over the fountains, and under the graves, 
Under floods that are deepest, 

Which Neptune obey, 
Over rocks that are steepest, 
Love will find out the way. 

Old Song. 



ON ETTRICK FORPvEST'S MOUN- 
TAINS DUN. 
1822. 
On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun, 
'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, 
And seek the heath-frequenting brood 
Far through the noonday solitude ; 
By many a cairn and trenched mound, 
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound, 
And springs, where gray-hair'd shepherds 

tell, 
That still the fairies love to dwell. 

Along the silver streams of Tweed, 
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead. 
When to the hook the salmon springs. 
And the line whistles through the rings; 
The boiling eddy see him try, 
Then dashing from the current high, 
Till watchful eye and cautious hand 
Have led his wasted strength to land. 

'Tis blitlie along the midnight tide, 
With stalwart arm and boat to guide ; 
On high the dazzling blaze to rear, 
And heedful plunge the barbed spear ;.. 
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright, 
Fling on the stream their ruddy light, 
And from the bank our band appears 
Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears. 

'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale. 
How we succeed and how we fail, 
Whether at Alwyn's * lordly meal, 
Or lowlier board of Ashetiel ; 
While the gay tapers cheerly shine, 
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine — 



* A hvyn, the seat of the Lord Scmerville, 



440 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Days free from thought, and nights from 

care, 
My blessing on the Forest fair ! 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 
1822. 
Enchantress, farewell, who so oft has 
decoy'd me, 
At the close of the evening through wood- 
lands to roam, 
Where the forester, lated, with wonder 
espied me. 
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting 
for home. 
Farev/ell, and take with thee thy numbers 
wild speaking [woe : 

The language alternate of rapture and 
Oh ! none but some lover whose heartstrings 
are breaking, 
The pang that I feel at our parting can 
know. 

Each joy thou couldst double, and when 
there came sorrow, 
Or pale disappointment, to darken my 
way, 
What voice was like thine, that could sing of 
to-morrow, 
Till forgot in the strain was the gi-ief of 
to-day ! 
But when friends drop around us in life's 
weary waning, 
Tile grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst 
not assuage ; 
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet 
remaining, 
The languor of pain, and the chillness of 
age 

'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents 
bewailing, 
To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the 
plain, 
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid un- 
availing, 
And held to his lips the cold goblet in 
vain : 
As vain thy enchantments, O Oueen of 
wild Numbers, 
To a bard vi^hen the reign of his fancy is 
o'er, 
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy 
slumbers — 
Farewell, then. Enchantress ! I meet thee 
no morel 



THE MAID OF ISLA, 
k\K — The Maid of Isla. 

WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S 

SCOTTISH MELODIES. 

1822. 

Oh, Maid of Isla, from the cliff, 

That looks on troubled wave and sky, 
Dost thou not see yon little skiff 

Contend wjth ocean gallantly? 
Now beating 'gamst the breeze and surge, 

And steep'd her leeward deck in foam, 
Why does she war unequal urge ? — 

Oh, Isla's maid, she seeks her home. 

Oh, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark, 

Her white wing gleams through mist and 
spray, 
Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark, 

As to the rock she wheels away , — 
Where clouds are dark, and billows rave, 

Why to the shelter should she come 
Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave ? — 

Oh, Maid of Isla, 'tis her home ! 

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff, 

Thou'rt adverse to the suit I bring, 
And cold as is yon wintry cliff, 

Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. 
Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave, 

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I'come 
For in thy love, or in his grave, 

Must Allan Voiu-ich find his home. 



CARLE, NOW THE KING'S 

COME.* 

BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING. 
1822. 

The news has flown frae mouth to mouth, 
The Nortli for ance has bang'd the South ; 
The deil a Scotsman's die o' drouth, 
Carle, now the King's come! 

CHORUS. 

Carle, nov.f the King's come ! 
Carle, nov.' the King's come ! 
Thou shalt dance, and I will sing 
Carle, now the King's come! 



*An imitation of an old Jacobite ditty, 
written on the arrival of Georu'e IV. in Scot- 
land, August, 1S22, and printed as a broad- 
side. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



441 



Auld England held him lang and fast ; 
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast \ 
But Scotland's turn is come at last- 
Carle, now the King's cornel 

Auld Reekie, in her rokelay gray, 
Thought never to have seen the day; 
He's been a weary time away — 

But, Carle, now the King's conic 

She's skirling frae the castle-hill ; 
The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill, 
Ye'll hear her at the Canon-mill — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

"Up, bairns! "she cries, " baith grit and 

sma', 
And busk ye for the weapon-shaw ! 
Stand by me, and we'll bang them a'— 
Carle, now the King's come 1 

" Come from Newbattle's ancient spires, 
Bauld Lothian, with your knights and 

squires, 
And match the metal of your sires — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" You're welcome hame, my Montagu ! 
Bring in your hand the young Buccleuch ; 
I'm missing some that I may rue — 
Carle, now the King'3 come ! 

" Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, 
You've graced my causeway mony a day ; 
I'll weep the cause if 3'ou should stay — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Come, premier Duke,* and carry doun 
Frae yonder craig his ancient croun ; 
It's had a lang sleep and a soun' — 

But, Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Come, A thole, from the hill and wood, 
Bring down your clansmen like a clud ; 
Come, Morton, show the Douglas' blood, — 
Carle, now the King's come I 

"Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to 

sheath, 
Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of 

death ; 
Com.e, Clerk, f and give your bugle breath ; 
Carle, now the Kind's come! 



* The Duke of Hamilton, the premier duke 
of Scotland. 

t The Baron of Pennycuik, bound by his 
tenure to meet the srvereign Vvhenever he or 
she visits Edinburgh at the Harestone, and 
there blow three blasts on a liorn. 



" Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids. 
Come, Roseberry, Irom Dalmeny shades, 
Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids, 
Carle, now the King's come 1 

" Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true, 
Girt with the sword that Minden knew 5 
We have o'er few such lairds as you — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" King Arthur's grown a common crier, 
He's heard in Fife and far Cantire, — 
' Fie, lads behold my crest of fire 1 ' 
Caile, now the King's come ! 

" Saint Abb roars out, ' I see him pass, 
Between Tantallon and the Bass ! ' 
Calton, get out your keeking glass — 
Carle, now the King's come!" 

The Carline stopp'd; and, sure I am, 
For very glee had ta'en a dwam. 
But Oman t help'd her to a dram. — 
Cogie, now the King's come J 

Cogie, now the King's come ! 
Cogie, now the King's come ! 
I'se be fou and ye's be toom,§ 
Cogie, now the King's come ! 

PART SECOND. 

A Hawick gill of mountain dew, 
Heised up Auld Reekie's heart, I trow. 
It minded her of Waterloo — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

Again I heard her summons swell, 
For, sic a dirdum and a yell. 
It drown'd Saint Giles's jowing bell- 
Carle, i.^w the King's come! 

" My trusty Provost, tried and tight. 
Stand forward for the Good Tov/n's right; 
There's waur than you been made 
knight II- 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

" My reverend Clergy, look ye say 
The best of thanksgiving ye ha'e, 
And warstle for a sunny day — 

Carle, now the King's com.e? 

" My Doctors, look that you agree, 
Cure a' the town without a fee ; 

X The landlord of the Waterloo Hotel. 

§ Empty = 

II The Lord Provost had the agreeable sur* 
prise of hearing his health proposed, at tha 
civic banquet given to George IV. in the Par- 
liam-nt-House, as " Sir William Arbiithnjt, 
Bart." 



442 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



My Lawyers, dinna pike a plea — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

*' Come forth each sturdy Burgher's bairn, 
That dmts on wood or clanks on airn, 
That fires the o'en, or wmds the pirn — 
Carle, now the Kmg's come ! 

" Come forward with the Blanket Blue,* 
Your sires were loyal men and true, 
As Scotland's foemen oft might rue — 
Carle, now the King's come i 

" Scots downa loup, and rin and rave, 
We're steady folks and something grave, 
We'll keep the causeway firm and brave, 
Carle, now the King's come i 

" Sii Thomas,! thunder from your rock, 
Till Pentiand dinnles wi' the shock, 
And lace wi' hre my snood o' smoke — 
Carle, now the King's come I 

" Melville, bring out your bands of blue^ 
A' Louden lads, baith stout and true, 
With Elcho, Hope, and Cockburn, too — 
Carle, now the King's come 1 

" And you, who on yon bluidy braes 
Compell'd the vanquished Despot's praise, 
Rank out — rank out — my gallant Greys \ — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Cock o' the North, my Huntly bra', 
Where are you with the Forty-twa ? 
Ah ! wae's my heart that ye're awa' — 

Carle, now the King's come I 
" But yonder come my canty Celts, 
With durk and pistols at their belts, 
Thank God, we've still some plaids and 
kilts- 
Carle, now the King's come 1 
" Lord, how the pibrochs groan and yell ! 
Macdonnel's ta'en the field himsell, 
Macleod comes branking o'er the fell — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 
'* Bend up your bow each Archer spark, 
For you're to guard him light and dark ; 
Faith, lads, for ance ye've hit the mark — 

Carle, now the King's come 1 
*' Young Rrrol, take the sword of state. 
The sceptre, Panie-Morarchate ; 
Knight Mareschal, see ye clear the gate — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

* A Blue Blanket is the standard of the m 
corpnrated trades of Edinbuvc^h. 

t Sir Tliomas Bradford, tlicn commander of 
the forces in Scotland. 

% The Scots Greys. 



" Kind cummer, Leith, ye've been misset, 
But dinna be upon the fret — 
Ye'se hae the handsel of him yet, 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

" My daughters, come with een sae blue. 
Your garlands weave, your blossoms strew 
He ne'er saw fairer flowers than you — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" What shall we do for the propine — 
We used to offer something fine. 
But ne'er a groat's in pouch of mine- 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Deil care — for that Pse never start, 
We'll welcome him with Highland heart; 
Whate'er we have he's get a part — 

Carle, now the King's come! 
" Pll show him mason-work this day — 
Nane of your bricks of Babel clay. 
But towers shall stand till Time's away — 

Carle, now the King's come I 

" I'll show him wit, Pll show him lair, 
And gallant lads and lasses fair, 
And what wad kind heart wish for mair ?- 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Step out, Sir John,§ of projects rife, 
Come win the thanks of an auld wife. 
And bring him health and length of life- 
Carle, nuw the King's come 1 



Jrom tijc j0rt«nts of J^i^il. 
1822. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XIX, 

By this good light, a wench of matchless 

mettle ! 
This were a leaguer-lass to love a soldier, 
To bind his wounds, and kiss his bloody 

brow. 
And sing a roundel as she help'd to arm 

him, 
Though the rough foeman's drums were 

beat so nigh. 
They seem'd to bear the burden. 

Old Play. 



§ Sir John Sinclair, Bart., father of the cele- 
brated writer, Catherine Sinclair. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



443 



CHAP. XXII. 

Chance will not do the work — Chance sends 
the breeze ; 

But if the pilot slumber at the helm, 

The very wind that wafts us towards the 
port 

May dash us on the shelves. — The steers- 
man's part is vigilance, 

Blow it or rough or smooth. — Old Play, 

CHAP. XXIV. 

This is the time — heaven's maiden-sentinel 
Hath quitted her high watch — the lesser 

spangles 
Are paling one by one ; give me the 

ladder 
And the sliort lever— bid Anthony 
Keep witli his carabmc the wickct-gate ; 
And do thou bare thy knife and follow me, 
For we will in and do it — darkness like 

tliis 
Is dawning of our fortunes. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXV. 

Death finds us 'mid our playthmgs — 

snatches us, 
As a cross nurse might do a wayward 

child, 
From all our toys and baubles. His rough 

call 
Unlooses all our favorite ties on earth ; 
And weH if they are such as may be an- 

swer'd 
In yonder world, where all is judged of 

truly.— OAi' Play 

CHAP. XXIX. 

How fares tb.e man on whom good men 

would look 
With eyes where scorn and censure com 

bated. 
But that kind Christian love hath taught 

the lesson — 
That tliey who merit most contempt and 

hate. 
Do most deserve our pity.— O/^ Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Marry, come up, sir, with your gentle blood; 
Here's a red stream beneatli his coarse blue 

doublet, 
That warms the heart as kindly as if drawn 
From the far source ot old Assyrian kings, 
Who first made mankind subject to their 

%yiA^.— Old Play. 



CHAP. XXXV. 

We are not worse at once — the course of 
evil 

Begins so slowly, and from such slight 
source. 

An infant's hand might stem its breach 
with ciay ; 

But let the stream get deeper, and philos- 
ophy — 

Ay, and religion too — shall strive in vain 

To turn the headlong torrent. — Old Play. 



^rom Icirnil of i\z |tak. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

Why then, we will have bellowing of 

beeves, 
Broaching of barrels, brandishing of 

spigots ; 
Blood shall flow freely, but it shall be gore 
Of herds and flocks, and venison and 

poultry, 
Join'd to the brave heart's-blood of John- 

a-Barleycorn ! — Old Play. 

CHAP, IV. 

No, sir, — I will not pledge — I'm one of 

those 
Who think good wine needs neither Dush 

nor preface 
To make it welcome. If you doubt my 

word, 
Fill the qiiart-cup, and see if I will choke 

oxi\.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XVI. 

Ascasto. Can she not speak ? 

Oszvald. If speech be only in accented 

sounds. 
Framed by the tongue and lips, the 

maiden's dumb; 
But if by quick and apprehensive look. 
By motion, sign, and glance, to give each 

meaning. 
Express as clothed in language, be term'd 

speech,' 
She hath that wondrous faculty ; for her 

eyes, 
Like the brigbt stars of heaven, can hold 

discourse. 
Though it be mute and soundless. 

Old Play. 



444 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CHAP. XVII, 

This is a love meeting ? See, the maiden 

mourns, 
And the sad suitor bends his looks on 

earth. 
There's more hath pass'd between them 

than belongs 
To Love's sweet sorrows. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIX. 

Now, hoist the anchor, mates — and let 

the sails 
Give their broad bosom to the buxom 

wind, 
Like lass that wooes a lover. — Anon. 

CHAP. XXV. 

The course of human life is changeful still 
As is the fickle wind and wandering rill ; 
Or, like the light dance which the wild 

breeze weaves 
Amidst the faded race of fallen leaves ; 
Wliich now its breath bears down, now 

tosses high, 
Beats to the earth, or wafts to middle sky, 
Such, and so varied, the precarious play 
Of fate with man, frail tenant of a day ! 
Ano7iy)not(s. 

CHAP. XXVI. 

Necessity — thou best of peacemakers, 
As well as surest prompter of invention — 
Help us to composition ! — Ano7iymoiis, 

CHAP. XXVI. 

This is some creature of the ele- 
ments 

Most like your sea-gull. He can wheel 
and whistle 

His screaming song, e'en when the storm 
is loudest — 

Take for his sheeted couch the restless 
foam 

Of the wild wave-crest — slumber in the 
calm, 

And dally with the storm. Yet 'tis a gull, 

An arrant gull, with all this. — The Clncf- 
tain. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

I fear the devil worst when gown and 

cassock, 
Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin's cloak, 
Conceals his cloven \\Qoi.— Anonymous. 



<i[rcrm ^uentiu gurtoarb". . 
1823. 

SONG— COUNTY GUY. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea. 
The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, 

Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird and flower, confess the hour, 

But wliere is County Guy .-' — 

The village maid steals through the shade, 

Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
To beauty shy, by httice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; 
And high and low the influence know — 

But where is County Guy .'' — Chap. iv. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XII. 

This is a lecturer so skill'd in policy, 
That (no disparagement to Satan's cun- 
ning) 
He well might read a lesson to the devil. 
And teach the old seducer new tempta- 
tions.— C/a? Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

I see thee yet, fair France — thou favor'd 

land 
Of art and nature — thou art still before me : 
Thy sons, to whom their labor is a sport. 
So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute; 
Thy sun - burnt daughters, with their 

laughing eyes 
And glossy raven-locks. But, favor'd 

France, 
Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell, 
In ancient times as now. — Anonytnons. 

CHAP. XV. 

He was a son of Egypt, as he told me, 

And one descended from those dread 
magicians. 

Who waged rash war, when Israel dwelt 
in Goshen, 

With Israel and her Prophet— matcliing 
rod 

With his the sons of Levi's — and en- 
countering 

Jehovah's miracles with incantations, 

Till upon Egypt came the avenging Angel, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



445 



And those proud sages wept for their 

first-born, 
As wept the urletter'd peasant. 

Anonyniiotis. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your 
captive ; 

Deal with me what your nobleness sug- 
gests — ■ 

jTliinking the chance of war may one day 
place you 

Where I must now be reckon'd — i' the roll 

Of melancholy prisoners. — Anonytnous. 

CHAP. XXV. 

No human quality is so well wove 

In warp and woof, but there's some flaw 

in it ; 
I've known a brave man fly a shepherd's 

cur, 
A wise man so demean him, drivelling 

idiocy 
Had well-nigh been ashamed on't. For 

your crafty, 
/our worldly-wise man, he, above the rest. 
Weaves his owu snares so fine, he's often 

caught in them. — Old Play: 

CHAP. XXVI. 

When Princes meet, astrologers may 

mark it 
An ominous conjunction, full of boding. 
Like that of Mars with 'S,2X\\xxi.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIX. 

Thy time is not yet out — the devil thou 

servest 
Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids 
The friends who drudge for him, as the 

blind man 
Was aided by the guide, who lent his 

shoulder 
O'er rough and smooth, until he reach'd 

the brink 
Of the fell precipice — then hurl'd him 

downward. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark, 
That reels amid the strife of meeting cur- 
rents.— O/^ Play. , 

CHAP. XXXI, 

Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. — 

Gentle maiden. 
Keep you your promise plight — leave age 

its subtleties, 



And gray-hair'd policy its maze of false- 

hood ; 
But be you candid as the morning sky, 
Ere the high sun sucks vapors up to stain 

it. — The Trial. 



1S23. 

EPILOGUE 

to ths drama founded on " st. 
ronan's well." 

1824. 

" After the play, the following humorous 
address (ascribed to an eminent literary char- 
acter) was spoken with infinite effect by Mr. 
Mackay in the character of Meg Dods. " — 
Edi7iburgh IVeekly Journal^ <)th June, 1824 

Ejiter Meg Dods, encircled by a crowd of 
tinricly boys, whom a TowtCs Officer is 
driving off. 

That's right, friend — drive the gaitlings 

back. 
And lend yon muckle ane a whack ; 
Your Embro' bairns are grown a- pack 

Sae proud and saucy, 
They scarce will let an auld wife walk 
Upon your causey. 

I've seen the day they would been scaur'd 
Wi' the Tolbooth, or wi' the Guard, 
Or maybe wud hae some regard 

For Jamie Laing *— 
The Water-hole f was right well wared 

On sic a gang. 

But whar's the gude Tolbooth \ gane now ? 
Whar's the auld Claught,§ wi'red and blue? 
Whar's Jamie Laing.? and whar's John 
Doo ? II 

And whar's the Weigh-hcuse ? 
Deil hae't I see but what is new. 

Except the Playhouse. 

* Jamie Laing, head of the Edinburgh Police 
at that time. 

t Watch-hole. 

+ The Tolbooth was the great Edinburgh Jail, 
pulled down in 1S17. 

§ Tlie Claught was tlie old Town O-i-w^. 

II John Doo, one of the Guard ci Pu^iuC. 



4.4.6 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS, 



Yoursells are changed frae head to heel ; 
There's some that gar the causeway reel 
With clashing hiife and rattUng wheel, 

And horses canterin', 
Wha's fathers daunder'd hame as weel 

Wi' lass and lantern. 

Mysell being in the public line, 

I look for howfs I kenn'd lang syne, 

Whar gentles used to drink gude wine, 

And eat cheap dinners ; 
But deil a soul gangs there to dine, 

Of saunts or sinners 1 

Fortune's * and Hunter's gane, alas I 
And Bayle's is lost in empty space ; 
And now, if folk would splice a brace, 

Or crack a bottle, 
They gang to a new-fangled place 

They ca' a Hottie. 

The deevil hottie them for Meg. 
They are sae greedy and sae gleg. 
That if ye're served but wi' an &%g, 

(And that's puir pickin',) 
In comes a chiel, and makes a leg, 

And charges chicken I 

" And wha may ye be," gin ye speer, 

" That brings your auld-warld clavers here ! " 

Troth, if there's onybody near 

That kens the roads, 
I'll baud ye Burgundy to beer. 

He ken's Meg Dods. 

I came a piece frae west o' Currie ; 
And, since I see you're in a hurry. 
Your patience I'll nae langer worry, 

But be sae crouse 
As speak a word for ane Will Murray, 

That keeps this house.! 

Plays are auld-fashion'd things in truth, 
And ye've seen wonders mair uncouth ; 
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth, 

Or want of dramock, 
Although they speak but wi' their mouth. 

Not with their stamock. 

But ye take care of a' folk's pantry ; 
And surely to hae stooden sentry 
Ower this big house (that's far frae rent 
free), 

For a lone sister, 

* Fortune's, Hunter's, and Bayle's were 
taverns. 

t The Edinburgh Theatre. 



Is claim as gude's to be a ventri J — 
How'st ca'd — loquister. 

Weel, sirs, gude-e'en, and have a care 

The bairns make fun o' Meg nae mair ; 

For gin they do, she tells you fair. 
And without failzie. 

As ?ure as ever ye sit there, 

She'll tell the Bailee. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. III. 

There must be government in all society— t 

Bees have their Queen, and stag herds ^lave 
their leader ; 

Rome had her Consuls, Athens had her 
Archons, 

And we, sir, have our Managing Com- 
mittee. — The Album of St. Ronan''s. 

CHAP. XI. 

Nearest of blood shall still be next in love ; 

And when I see these happy children 
playing. 

While William gathers flowers for Ellen's 
ringlets, 

And Ellen dresses flies for William's angle. 

I scarce can think, tiiat in advancing life, 

Coldness, unkindness, interest, or sus- 
picion, 

Will e'er divide that unity so sacred, 

Which Nature bound at birth . 

Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXXII. 

It comes — it wrings me in my parting hour, 
The long-hid crime — the well-disguised 

guilt. 
Bring me some holy priest to lay the 

spectre ! — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXV. 

Sea et post equitem atra cnra-— 
Still though the headlong cavalier. 
O'er rough and smooth, in wild career. 

Seems racing with the wind ; 
His sad companion — ghastly pale, 
And darksome as a widow's /eil. 

Care — keeps her seat behind. — Horacv. 

fHAP. XXXVIII. 

What sheeted ghost is wandering through 

the storm ? 
For never did a maid of middle earth 



X An allusion to the recent performances of 
Alexandre, the ventriloquist. 



MISCELLAiVEOUS WE MS. 



447 



Choose such a time or spot to vent her 
sorrows. — Old Play. 

CHAP, xxxix. 

Here come we to our close — for that which 

follows 
Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery. 
Steep crags and headlong lins may court the 

pencil 
Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange 

adventures ; 
But who would paint the dull and fog-wrapt 

moor, 
In its long tract of sterile desolation ? 

Old Play. 



1824. 

As lords their laborers' hire delay, 

Fate quits our toil with hopes to come, 

Which, if far short of present pay, 
Still owns a debt and names a sum. 

Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, tlisn, 
Although a distant date be given j 

Despair is treason towards man, 
And blasphemy to Heaven. 



LINES 

ADDRESSED TO 

MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE,* 

THE CJiLEBRATED VENTRILOQUIST. 
1824. 

Of yore, in old England, it was not thought 

good 
To carry two visages under one hood ; 



* " When Monsieur Alexandre, the cele- 
brated ventriloquist, was in Scotland, in 1824, 
he paid a visit to Abbotsford, where he enter- 
tained his distin^ushed host and. the otlier 
visitors with his unrivalled imitations. Next 
morning, when he was about to depart, Sir 
Walter felt a good deal embarrassed as to the 
sort of acknowledgment he should offer ; but at 
length, resolving that it would probably be most 
agreeable to the young foreigner to be paid in 
professional coin, if in any, he stepped aside for 
a few minutes, and, on returning, presented him 
with this enigram." The lines were published 
in the Edinburgh Annual Re^^isier for 1S24. 



What should folk say to you'^ who have 
faces such plenty, 

That from under one hood you last night 
show'd us twenty ! 

Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in 
truth, 

Are you ^handsome or ugly, in age or iii 
youth ? 

Man, woman, or child — a dog or a mouse? 

Or are you at once, each live thing in the 
house? 

Each live thing did I ask? — each dead im- 
plement, too, 

A workshop in your person, — sav/, chisel, 
and screw ! 

Above all, are you one individual.? I know 

You must be at least Alexandre and Co. 

But I think you're a troop — an assem- 
blage — a mob, 

.And that I, as the Sheriff, should take up the 
job; 

.\nd instead of rehearsing your wonders in 
verse. 

Must lead you the Riot Act, and bid you 
disperse. 



THE DEATH OF KEELDAR. 

These stanzas were written for Hood's 
''Gem," 1828, and accompanied an engraving 
from Cooper's painting of the Death of Keel- 
da r. 

U p rose the sun o'er moor and mead ; 
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede; 
Brave Keeldar, irom his couples freed, 

Career'd along the lea ; 
The palfrey sprung with sprightly bound, 
As if to match the gamesome hound ; 
His horn the gallant huntsman wound : 
They were a jovial three I 

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame, 
To wake the wild deer never came, 
Smce .Alnwick's Earl pursued the game 

On Cheviot's rueful day ; 
Keeldar was matchless in his speed, 
Than Tarras, ne'er was stauncher steed, 
A peerless archer, Percy Rede - 

And right dear friends were they. 

The chase engross'd their joys and woes, 
Together at the dawn they rose, 
Together shared the noon's repose. 
By fountain or by stream , 
I And oft, when evening skies were red 
I The heather was their common bed. 



448 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where each, as wildering fancy led, 

Still hunted in his dream. 
Now is the thrilling moment near, 
Of sylVan hope, and sylvan fear, 
Yon thicket holds the harbor'd deer, 

The signs the hunters know ; — 
With eyes of flame, and quivering ?ars, 
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears ; 
The restless palfrey paws and rears ; 

The archer strings his bow. 

The game's afoot !— Halloo ! Halloo ! 
Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue : — 
But woe the shaft that erring flew — 

That e'er it left the string ! 
And ill betide the faithless yew ! 
The stag bounds scat'nless o'er the dew, 
And gallant Keeldar's life blood true 

Has drench'd the gray goose wing. 

The noble hound— he dies, he dies, 
Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes. 
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies. 

Without a groan or quiver. 
Now day may break and bugle sound, 
And whoop and halloo ring around. 
And o'er his couch the stag may bound. 

But Keeldar sleeps forever. 
Dilated nostrils, staring eyes, 
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise, 
He knows not that his comrade dies. 

Nor what is death — but still 
His aspect hath expression drear 
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear, 
Like startled children when they hear 

Some mystic tale of ill. 
But he that bent the fatal bow, 
Can well the sum of evil know, 
And o'er his favorite, bending low, 

In speechless grief recline j 
Can think he hears the senseless clay 
In unreproachful accents say, 
" The hand that took my hfe away, 

Dear master, was it thine ? 

" And if it be, the shaft be bless'd. 
Which sure some erring aim address' 
Smce m >our service prized, caress'd, 

1 in your service die; 
And you may have a fleeter hound, 
To match the dun-deer's merry boun 
But by your couch wilt ne'er be found 

So true a guard as I." 
And to his last stout Percy rued 
The fatal chance; for when it stood 
'GaiHst fearful odds in deadly feud, 

And fell amid th^ fray, 



E'en with his dying voice he cried, 
" Had Keeldar but been at my side. 
Your treacherous ambush had been spied — 
I had not died to-day I " 

Remembrance of the erring bow 

Long since had joined the tides whiCh 

flow. 
Conveying human bliss and woe 

Down dark oblivion's river; 
But Art can Time's stern doom an"est, 
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast, 
And, in her Cooper's colors drest, 

The scene shall live forever. 



1825. 

SONG— SOLDIER, WAKE. 
I. 

Soldier, wake — the day is peeping. 
Honor ne'er was won in sleeping, 
Never when the sunbeams still 
Lay unreflected on the hill : 
'Tis when they are glinted back 
From axe and armor, spear and jack, 
Tliat they promise future story 
Many a page of deathless glory. 
Shields that are the foeman's terror, 
Ever are the morning's mirror. 



Arm ::nd up — the morning beam 
Hath called the rustic to his team. 
Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake. 
Hath call'd the huntsman to the break; 
The early student ponders o'er 
His dusty tomes of ancient lore> 
Soldier, wake — thy harvest, fame ; 
Thy study, conquest ; war, thy game. 
Shield, that would be foeman's terror, 
Still should gleam the morning's mirror. 



Poor hire repays the rustic's pain; 
More paltry still the sportsman's gain ; 
Vainest of all, the student's theme 
Ends in some metaphysic dream : 
Yet each is up, and each has toil'd 
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled; 
And each is eagerer in his aim 
Than he who barters hfe for fame. 
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror I 
Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror 
Cka^. Kiv. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



449 



SONG— THE TRUTH OF WOMAN. 

I. 

Woman's faith, and woman's trust — 
Write the characters in dust ; 
Stamp them on the running stream, 
Print them on the moon's pale beam, 
And each evanescent letter 
Shall be clearer, firmer, better, 
And more permanent, I ween, 
Than the thing those letters mean. 



1 have strain'd the spider's thread 

"Gainst the promise of a maid; 

I have weigh'd a grain of sand 

'Gainst her plight of heart and hand ; 

I told my true love of the token. 

How her faith proved light, and her word 

was broken : 
Again her word and truth she plight, 
And I believed them again ere night. 

Chap. XX. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

In Madoc's tent the clarion sounds, 
With rapid clangor hurried far; 

Each hill and dale the note rebounds, 
But when return the sons of war! 

Thou, born of stern Necessity, 

Dull Peace ! the valley yields to thee, 
And owns thy melancholy sway. 

Welsh Poem. 

CHAP, VII. 
O, sadly shines the morning sun 

On leagur'd castle wall, 
When bastion, tower, and battlement, 

Seem nodding to their fall. — Old Ballad. 

CHAP. XII. 

Now all ye ladies of fair Scotland, 
And ladies of- England that happy would 
prove, 
Marry never for houses, nor marry for land. 
Nor marry for nothing but only love. 

Family Quarrels, 

CHAP. XIII. 

Too much rest is rust. 

There's ever cheer in changing ; 
We tyne by too much trust, 

So we'll be up and ranging. — Old Song. 

CHAP. XVII. 

Kmg out the merry bells, the bride ap- 
proaches ; 



The blush upon her cheek has shamed the 

morning, 
For that is dawning palely. Grant, good 

saints, 
These clouds betoken naught of eviljomen I 
Old Play. 

CHAP, XXVII. 

Julia. Gentle sir, 

You are our captive — but we'll use you so, 
That you shall think your prison joys may 

match 
Wliate'er your liberty hath known of 

pleasure. 
■Roderick. No, fairest, we have trifled 

here too long ; 
And, lingering to see your roses blossom, 
I've let my laurels wither. — Old Play. 



1S25. 

AHRIMAN. 

Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still 
Holds origin of woe and ill I 

WHien bending at thy shrine, 
We view the world with troubled eye, 
Where see we 'neatii the extended sky, 

An empire matching thine ! 

If the Benigner Power can yield 
A fountain in the desert field, 

Where weary pilgrims drink ; 
Thine are the waves that lash the rock, 
Thine the tornado's deadly shock, 

Where countless navies sink ! 

Or if He bid the soil dispense 
Balsams to cheer the sinking sense, 

How few can they deliver 
From lingering pains, or pang intense, 
Red Fever, spotted Pestilence, 

The arrows of thy quiver ! 

Chief in Man's bosom sits thy sway, 
And frequent, while in words we pray 

Before another throne, 
Whate'er of specious form be there, 
The secret meaning of the prayer 

Is, Ahriman, thine own. 

Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form, 
Thunder thy voice, thy garments storm, 

As Eastern Magi say ; 
With sentient soul of hate and wrath, 
And wings to sweep thy deadly path, 

And fangs to tear thy prey ? 



45^ 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



Or art thou mix'd in Nature's source, 
An ever operating force, 

Converting good to ill ; 
An evil principle innate 
Contending with our better fate, 

And, oh ! victorious still ? 

Howe'er it be, dispute is vain, 

On all without thou hold'st thy reign, 

Nor less on all within ; 
Each mortal passion's fierce career, 
Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear, 

Thou goadest into sin. 

Whene'er a sunny gleam appears. 
To brighten up our vale of tears, 

Thou art not distant far ; 
'Mid such brief solace of our lives, 
Thou vvhett'st our very banquet-knives 

To tools of death and war. — 

Thus, from the moment of our birth, 
Lon;^ as we linger on the earth, 

Thou rul'st the fate of men ; 
Thine are the pangs of life's last hour. 
And— who dare answer? — is thy power. 

Dark Spirit I ended Then 1—Chap. iii. 



SONG OF BLONDEL— THE 
BLOODY VEST. 

'TwAS near the fair city of Benevent, 
When the sun was setting on bough and 

bent. 
And knights were preparing in bower and 

tent, 
On the eve of the Baptist's tournament ; 
When in Lmcoln green a stripling gent, 
Well seeming a page by a princess sent, 
Wander'd the camp, and, still as he went, 
Enquired for the Englishman, Thomas a 

Kent. 

Far hath he fared, and farther must fare, 
rill he finds his pavilion nor stately nor 

rare, — 
Little save iron and steel was there ; 
And, as lacking the coin to pay armorer's 

care, 
With his sinewy arms to the shoulders 

bare, 
Tlie good knight with hammer and file 

did repair 
The mail that to-morrow must see him 

wear, 
For th ; honor of Saint John and his lady 

fair. 



" Thus speaks my lady," the page said he, 
And the knight bent lowly both head and 

knee, 
" She is Benevent's Princess so high in 

degree. 
And thou art as lowly as knight may well 

be— 
He that would climb so lofty a tree, 
Or spring such a gulf as divides her ixo\>z 

thee. 
Must dare some high deed, by which all 

men may see 
His ambition is back'd by his high chi. 

valrie. 

" Therefore thus speaks my lady," the fair 

page he said. 
And the knight lowly louted with hand 

and with head, 
" Fling aside the good armor in which 

thou art clad, 
And don thou this weed of her night-gear 

instead. 
For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread : 
And charge, thus attired, in the tourna- 
ment dread. 
And fight as thy wont is where most 

blood is shed, 
And bring honor away, or remain with 

the dead." 

Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in 
his breast, 

The knight the weed hath taken, and 
reverently hath kiss'd : 

" Now blessed be the moment, the messen- 
ger be blest ! 

Much honor'd do I hold me in my lady's 
high behest ; 

And say unto my lady, in this dear night- 
weed dress'd. 

To the best arm'd champion I will not 
vail my crest ; 

But if I live and bear me well 'tis her turn 
to take the test." 

Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of 
the Lay of the bloody Vest. 

FYTTE SECOND. 

The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant 

feats^ 
There was winning of honor, and losing 

of seats — 
There was hewing with falchions, and 

splintering with staves. 
The victors won glory, the vanquish'd 

won graves. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



451 



O, many a knight there fought bravely 

and well, 
Yet one was accounted his peers to excel, 
And 'twas he whose sole armor on body 

and breast, 
Seem'd the weed of a damsel when boune 

for her rest. 

There were some dealt him wounds that 

were bloody and sore, 
But others respected his plight, and for- 
bore. 
'* It is some oath of honor," they said, 

"and I trow 
'Twere unknightly to slay him achieving 

his vow." 
Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the 

tournament cease, 
He flung down his warder, the trumpets 

sung peace ; 
And the judges declare, and competitors 

yield, 
That the Knight of the Night-gear was 

first in the field. 

The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was 

nigher, 
When before the fair Princess low louted 

a squire, 
And deliver'd a garment unseemly to 

view, 
With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all 

hack'd and pierced through ; 
ATI rent and all tatter'd, all clotted with 

blood. 
With foam of the horses, with dust, and 

with mud. 
Not the point of that lady's small finger, 

I ween, 
Could have rested on spot was unsullied 

and clean. 

" This token my master, Sir Thomas a 

Kent, 
Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent : 
He that climbs the tall tree has won right 

to the fruit. 
He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail 

in his suit ; 
Through life's utmost peril the prize I 

have won, 
And now must the faith of my mistress be 

shown : 
For she who prompts knight on such 

danger to run. 
Must avouch his true service in front of 

the sun. 



" ' I restore,' says my master, ' the garment 

I've worn. 
And I claim of the Princess to don it in 

turn ; 
For its stains and its rents she should prize 

it the more, 
Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though crim- 

son'd with gore.' " 
Then deep blush'd the Princess — yet kiss'd 

she and press'd 
The blood-spotted robe to her lips and her 

breast. 
" Go tell my true knight, church and cham- 
ber shall show, 
If I vaiue the blood on this garment or 

no." 

And when it was time for the nobles to 

pass 
In solemn procession to minster and mass, 
The first walk'd the Princess in purple and 

pall, 
But the blood-besmear'd night-robe she wore 

over all ; 
And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at 

dine. 
When she knelt to her father and proffei'd 

the wine. 
Over all her rich robes and state jewels she 

wore. 
That wimple unseemly bedabbled with 

gore. 

Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well you 

may thmk, 
And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and 

wink; 
And the Prince, who in anger and shame" 

had look'd down, 
Turn'd at length to his daughter, and spoke 

with a frown : 
" Now since thou hast publish'd thy folly 

and guilt; 
E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou 

has spilt ; 
Yet sore for thy boldness you both will 

repent. 
When you wander as exiles from fair Bene- 
vent." 

Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall whera 

he stood. 
Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of 

mood : 
" The blood that I lost for this daugliter 0$ 

thine, 
I poured forth as freely as flask, gives itsi 

wine; 



452 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And if for my sake she brooks penance and 

blame, 
Do not doubt I will save her from suffering 

and shame ; 
And light will she reck of thy princedom and 

rent, 
When I hail her, in England, the Countess 

of Kent." — Chap. xxvi. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. IX. 

This is the Prince of Leeches ; fever, 

plague, 
Cold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look 

on hira. 
And quit their grasp upon the tortured 

sinews. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XIII. 

You talk of Gayety and Innocence ! 
The moment when the fatal fruit was 

eaten. 
They parted ne'er to meet again ; and 

Malice 
Has ever since been playmate to light 

Gayety, 
From the first moment when the smiling 

infant 
Destroys the- flower or butterfly he toys 

with, 
To the laf.t chuckle of the dying miser. 
Who on his deathbsd laughs his last to 

hear 
His wealthy neighbor has become a bank- 
rupt.— O/^ Play. 

CHAP. XVI. 

'Tis not her sense— for sure, in that 
There's nothing more than common ; 

And all her wit is only chat, 
Like any other woman. — Song. 

CHAP. XVII. 

Were every hair upon his head a life, 
And every life were to be supplicated 
By numbers equal to those bau-s quad- 
rupled. 
Life after life should out like waning stars 
Before the daybreak— or as festive lamps, 
Which have lent lustre to the midnight 

revel. 
Each after each are quench'd when guests 
depart \—Old Play. 

CHAP. XX. 

When beauty leads the lion in her toils, 
Such are her charms, lie dare not raise his 
nianp; 



Far less expand the terror of his fangs. 
So grea« Alcides made his club a distaff, 
And spun to please fair Omphale. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXIII. 

'Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves 

hsr hand 
To change the face of the mysterious land, 
Till the bewildering scenes around us seem 
The vain productions of a feverish dream; 
Astolpho, a Romance. 

CHAP. XXVI. 

The tears I shed must ever fall ! 

I weep not for an absent swain, 
For time may happier hours recall. 

And parted lovers meet again. 

I weep not for the silent dead. 

Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er, 
And those that loved their steps must tread 

When death shall join to part no more. 

But worse than absence, worse than death , 
She wept her lover's sullied fame. 

And, fired with all the pride of birth, 
She wept a soldier's injured name. 

Ballad. 



i 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE 
REV. GEORGE SCOTT. 

1830. 

To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale 
Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale. 
Art thou a parent? — Reverence this bier — 
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here,. 
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start. 
With opening talents and a generous heart. 
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all thine 

own ? 
Lo ! here their end — a monumental stone ! 
But let submission tame each sorrowing 

thought. 
Heaven crown'd its champion ere the fight 

was iought. 



THE FORAY. 

1830. 

The last of our steers on our board has 

beer, spread. 
And tlie last flask of wine in our goblet is 
red; 



MISCELLAxVEOUS POEMS. 



45^ 



Up ! up, my brave kinsmen ! belt swords, 

and begone ! — 
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil 

to be won. 

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with 

ours, 
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from 

the towers, 
And strive to distinguish through tempest 

and gloom, 
The prance of the steed, and the toss of the 

plume. 

The rain is descending, the wind rises 

loud ; 
And the moon her red beacon has veil'd with 

a cloud ; 
'Tis tlie better, my mates! for the warder's 

dull eye 
Shall m confidence slumber, nor dream we 

are nigh. 

Our steeds are impatient ! I hear my blithe 
Gray ! 

There is life in his hoof -clang, and hope in 
his neigh ; 

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his 
mane 

Shall marshal your march through the dark- 
ness and rain. 

The drawbridge has dropped, the bugle has 

blown ; 
One pledge is to quaff yet — then mount and 

begone ! — 
To their honor and peace, that shall rest 

with the slam ! 
To their health and their glee, that see 

Teviot again 1 



MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

Come forth, old man— Thy daughter's 
side 
Is now the fitting place for thee . 
When time hath quell'd the oak's bold 

pride. 
The j^outhful tendril yet may hide 
The ruins of the parent tree. 

CHAP. IV. 

Yon path of greensward 
Winds round by sparry grot and gay 
pavilion : 



There is no flint to gall thy tender foot, 
There's ready shelter from each breeze or 

shower. — 
But duty guides not that way — see her 

stand. 
With wand entwined with amaranth, near 

yon cliffs, 
Oft where she leads thy blood must mark 

thy footsteps, 
Oft where she leads thy head must bear 

the storm, 
And thy shrunk form endure heat, cold, 

and hunger ; 
But she will guide thee up to noble 

heights, 
Which he who gains seems native of the 

sky, 
While earthly things he stretch'd beneath 

his feet, 

Diminish'd, shrunk, and valueless 

Anonymous, 
CHAP. X- 

Here we have one head 
Upon two bodies — your two-headed bul- 
lock 
Is but an ass to such a prodigy. 
These two have but one meaning, thought, 

and counsel , 
And when the single noddle has spoke 

out, 
The four legs scrape assent to it. 

Old Play. 

CHAP XIV. 

Deeds are done on earth 
Which have their punishment ere the earth 

closes 
Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working 
Of the remorse-stirr'd fancy, or the vision, 
Distinct and real, of unearthly being, 
All ages witness, that beside the couch 
Of thie fell homicide oft stalks the ghost 
Of him he slew, and shows the shadowy 

wound— C?/^ Play. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

The deadliest snakes are those which, 
twined mongst flowers. 

Blend their bright coloring with th« 
varied blossoms, 

Their tierce eyes glittering like the span- 
gled dewdrop , 

In all so like what nature has most harm- 
less. 

That sportive innocence, which dreads no 
danger, 

Ispoison'd unawares.— OA/ Play. 



1454 



scorrs poetical works. 



GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. 

Bring the bowl which you boast, 

Fill it up to the brim ; 
'Tis to him we love most, 

And to all who love him. 
Brave gallants, stand up, 

And avaunt, ye base carles ! 
Were there death in the cup, 

Here's ?. health to King Charles ! 

Though he wanders through dangers, 

Unaided, imknown. 
Dependent on strangers, 

Estranged from his own ; 
Thougli 'tis under our breath, 

Amidst forfeits and perils, 
Here's to honor and faith. 

And a health to King Charles ! 

Let such honors abound 

As the time can afford. 
The knee on the ground. 

And the hand on the sword ; 
But the time shall come round. 

When 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 
The loud trumpets shall sound, 

Here's a health to King Charles ! 

Chap. XX. 



ONE HOUR WITH THEE. 

An hour with thee ! — When earliest day 
Dapples with gold the eastern gray, 
Oh, what can frame my mind to bear 
The toil and turmoil, cark and care. 
New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 
And sad remembrai.ee of the old ? 

One hour with tuee ! 

One hour with thee !— When burning June 
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon ; 
Wliat shall repay the faithful swain. 
His labor on the sultry plain ; 
And morethan cave or sheltering bough. 
Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow ?— 
One hour with thee ! 

One hour with thee ! — When sun is set, 
O, u'hat can teach me to forget 
The thankless labors of the day ; 
The hopes, the wishes, flung away ; 
The increasing wants and lessening gains, 
The master's pride, who scorns my pains ? — 
One hour with thee ! 
Chap. XX vi. 



MOTTO. 

CHAP. I. 

" Behold the Tiber ! " the vain Roman 

cried, 
Viewing the ample T»y from Baiglie's side ; 
But Where's the Scot that would the vaunt 

repay, 
And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay ? 

Anony»ious. 

THE LAY OF POOR LOUISE. 

Ah, poor Louise ! The livelong day 
She roams from cot to castle .say ; 
And still her voice and viol say. 
Ah, maids, beware the woodland way, 

Think on Louise; 

Ah, poor Louise ! The sun was high. 
It smirch'd her cheek, it dimm'd her eye. 
The woodland walk was cool and nigh, 
Where bu'ds with chiming streamlets vie 

To cheer Louis*. 

Ah, poor Louise ! The savage bear 
Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair ; 
The wolves molest not paths so fair — 
But better far had such been there 

For poor Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! In woody wold 
She met a huntsman fair and bold ; 
His baldric was of silk and gold, 
And many a witching tale he told 

To poor Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! Small cause to pine 
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine ; 
For peace of mind, that gift divine, 
^nd spotless innocence, were thine, 

Ah, poor Louise / 

Ah, poor Louise ! Thy treasure's reft! 
I know not if by force or theft. 
Or part by violence, part by gift ; 
But misery is all that's left 

To poor Louise. 

Let poor Louise some succor have ! 
She will not long your bounty crave, 
Or tire the gay with warning stave — 
For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave 

For poor Louiscr 
Chap. X. 



1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



455 



CHANT OVER THE DEAD. 

ViKWLESS Essence, thin and bare, 
Well-nigh melted into air : 
Still with fondness hovering near 
Tlie earthly form thou once didst wear. 

Pause upon thy pinion's flight, 
Ba thy course to left or right ; 
Be thou doom'd to soar or sink, 
Pause upon the av/ful brink. 

To avenge the deed expelling 
Th^e untimely from thy dwelling, 
Mystic force thou shalt retain 
O'er the blood and o'er the brain. 

When the form thou shalt espy 
That darken'd on thy closing eye; 
When the footstep thou shalt hear, 
That thrill'd upon thy dying ear ; 

Then strange sympathies shall wake, 

The flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall 

quake , 
The wounds renew their clotter'd flood, 
And every drop cry blood for blood. 

Chap xxii. 

YES, THOU MAY'ST SIGH. 

Yes, thou may'st sigh, 
And look once more at all around, 
At stream and bank, and sky and ground, 
Thy life its final course.has found, 

And thou must die. 

Yes, lay thee down, 
And while thy struggling pulses flutter, 
Bid the gray monk his soul mass mutter 
And the deep bell its death-tone utter — 

Thy life is gone. 

Be not afraid. 
•Tis but a pang, and then a thrill, 
A tever fit, and then a chill ; 
And then an end of human ill, 

For thou art dead. — Chap. xxx. 

OH, BOLD AND TRUE. 

Oh, bold and True, 

In bonnet blue, 

That fear or falsehood never knew ; 

Whose heart was loyal to his word, 

Whose hand was faithful to his sword — 

Seek Europe wide from sea to sea, 

But bonny Blue-cap still for me 1 



I've seen Almain's proud champions 

prance — 
Have seen the gallant knights of France, 
Unrivall'd with the sword and lance — 
Have seen the sons of England true 
Wield the brown bill, and bend the yew, 
Search France the fair and England free, 
But bonny Blue-cap still for me! 

Chap, xxxii. 



MOTTOES. 

CHAP. V. 

I vi^AS one 

Who loved the greenwood bank and low. 

ing herd, 
The russet prize, the lowly peasant's life, 
Season'd with sweet content, more than 

the halls 
Where revellers feast to fever-height. Be- 
lieve me, 
There ne'er was poison mix'd in maple 
bowl. — Anonyjjzous. 

CHAP. X. 

We know not when we sleep nor when we 

wake. 
Visions distinct and perfect cross our eye. 
Which to the slumberer seem realities ; 
And while they waked, some men have 

seen such sights 
As set at nought the evidence of sense. 
And left them well persuaded they were 

dreaming. — Anonymous, 

CHAP. XI 

These be the adept's doctrines— every ele^ 

ment 
Is peopled with its separate race of 

spirits. 
The airy Sylphs on the blue ether float ; 
Deep in the earthy cavern skulks the 

Gnome ; 
The sea-green Naiad skims the ocean 

billow, 
And the fierce fire is yet a friendly home 
To its peculiar sprite — the Salamander. 

Anon'']nous. 

CHAP. XXII. 

Tell me not of it — I could ne'er abide 
The mummery of all that forced civility. 
" Pray, seat yourself, my lord." With 
cringing hams 



45^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The speech is spoken, and, with bended 

knee, 
Heard by the smiling courtier. — '• Before 

you, sir ? 
It nust be on the earth then." Hang it 

all! 
The pride which cloaks itself in such poor 

fashion 
Is scarcely fit to swell a beggar's bosom. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

Ay, this is he who wears the wreath of 

bays 
Wove by Apollo and the Sisters Nine, 
Wliich Jove's dread lightning scathes not. 

He liath doft 
The cumbrous helm of steel, and flung 

aside 
The yet more galling diadem of gold , 
While, with a leafy circlet round his brows, 
He reigns the King of Lovers and ot Poets. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Want you a man 

Experienced in the world and its affairs ? 
Here he is for your purpose. He's a monk. 
He hath forsworn the world and all its 

work 
The rather that he knows it passing well, 
Special the worst of it ; for he's a monk. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Toll, toll tlie bell 1 

Greatness is o'er, 
The heart has broke, 
To ache no more ; 
An unsubstantial pageant all- 
Drop o'er the scene the funeral-pall. 
Old Poem. 
CHAP. XXXV. 

Here's a weapon now. 

Shall shake a conquering general in his 
tent, 

A. monarch on his throne, or reach a prel- 
ate, 

However holy be his ofifices. 

E'en while h? serves the altar. — Old Play. 

SONG OF THE JUDGES OF THE 
SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Measurers of good and evil, 

Bring the square, the line, the level, — 

Rear the altar, dig the trench, 

Blood both atone and ditch shall drench. 



Cubits six, from end to end, 

Must the fatal bench extend,— 
Cubits six, from side to side, 
Judge and culprit must divide. 
On the east the Court assembles, 1 
On the west the Accused trembles— , 
Ansvver,.brethren, ail and one, 
Is the ritual rightly done ? 
Answer. 
On life and soul, on blood and bone, 
One for all, and all for one, 
We warrant tliis is rightly done. 

jftidges. 
How wears the night ? — Doth morning shins 
In early radiance on the Rhine? 
What music floats upon his tide? 
Do birds the tardy morning chide ? 
Brethren, look out from hill and height. 
And answer true, How wears the night? 

Ansrver. 
The night is old ; on Rhine's broad breast 
Glance drowsy stars which long to rest. 

No beams are twinkling in the east 
There is a voice upon the flood, 
The stern still call of blood for blood : 

'Tis time we listen the behest. 
Chorus, 
Up, then, up 1 Wlien day's at rest, 

'Tis time that such as we are 
watchers ; 
Rise to judgment, brethren, rise f 
Vengeance knows not sleepy eyes, 

He and night are matchers. 

ChaJ>. sx. 



J^rffm Count ^obtrt of ^ark. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. VI. 

Vain man, thou may'st esteem thy love as 

fair 
As fond hyperboles suffice to raise. 
She may, be all that's matchless in her 

person, 
And all-divine in soul to match her body ; 
But take this from me — thou shalt nevet 

call her 
Superior to her sex, while one survives, 
And I am her true xoi^vy.— Old Play. 

CHAP, XVI. 

Strange ape of man 1 who loathes the* 

while he scorns thee ; 
Half a reproach to us and half a jest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



457 



What fancies can be ours ere we have That shuns the approach of morn and the 



pleasure 



young sun i 



In viewing our own form, our pride and [ Or hath he wrapt him in Cimmerian 

passions, 
Reflected in a shape grotesque as thine ! 
A7ionyjnoics. 

CHAP. XVII. 

'Tis strange that, in the dark sulphureous 
nnne, 

Where wild ambition piles its ripening 
stores 

Of slumbering thunder, Love will interpose 

His tiny torch, and cause the stern ex- 
plosion 

To burst, when the deviser's least aware. 
Ano7iy}noits. 
CHAP, XXV. 

Heaven knows its time ; the bullet has its 
billet, 

Arrow and javelin each its destined pur- 
pose , 

The fated beasts of Nature's lower strain 

Have each their separate task. — Old Play. 



J'rom Ca^tU ganger. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP XL 

Where is he ? Has the deep earth swal- 
lowed him ? 
Or hath he incited like some airy phantom 



darkness, 
And pass'd beyond the circuit of the s»,ht 
With things of the night's shadows i 

Anonymous 

CHAP. XIV. 

The way is long, my children, long ansi 

rough — 
The moors are dreary and the woods ara 

dark; 
But he that creeps from cradle on to grave, 
Unskill'd save in the velvet course of 

fortune, 
Hath miss'd the discipline of noble hearts. 
Old Play. 

CHAP, xviir. 

His talk was of another world — his bodi' 

ments 
Strange, doubtful, and mysterious ; tliose 

wlio heard him 
Listen'd as to a man in feverish dreams, 
Who speaks of other objects tiian the 

present; 
And mutters l>ke to him who sees a ? isioa. 
Old Play. 



FRAGMENTS, 

OF VERY EARLY DATE 



bothXvell castle. 

1799- 
When fruitful Clydesdale's apple-bowers 

Are mellowing in the noon ; 
Wiien sighs round Pembroke's ruin'd 
towers 
The b'.:itry breath of June; 

When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood, 

Must leave his channel dry; 
And vainly o'er the limpid flood 

Tlie angler guides his fly; 

If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes 
A wanderer thou hast been, 
■ Or hid thee from tlie summers blaze 
in Blantyre's bowers of green, 

Full where the copsewood opens wild 

Thy pilgrim step hath staid, 
Where Bothwell's towers, in ruin piled, 

O'erlook the verdant glade ; 

And many a tale of love and fear 
Jlath mjnc,ded with tlie scene— 

Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd 30 dear, 
And Bothwell's bonny )ean. 

O, if with rugged minstrel lays 

Unsated '02 thy ear, 
And tliou of deeds oi other days 

Another tale wilt hear, — 

Then all beneath the spreading beach, 

Flung careless on the lea, 
The Gothic muse the tale shall teach 

Of Bothwell's sisters three. 

Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head, 

He blew liis bugle round. 
Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood 

Has started at the sound. 

St. George's cross, o'er Bothwell 

Was waving far and wide, 
And from the lofty turret flung 

In crimson blaze on Clyde ; 

And rising at the bugle blast 

Ttiat mark'd the Scottish foe, 
Old England's yeomen muster'd fast, 

And bent the Normaa bow, 
U58/ 



Tall hi the midst Sir Aylmer rose, 

Proud Pembroke's Ear! was ne— 
While" »»•*»*• 



THE SHEPHERD'S TALE. 
1799. 
• *•**• 
And ne'er but once, my son, he says, 

Was yon sad cavern trod, 
In persecution's iron days, 

When the land was left by God. 

From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red, 
• A wanderer hither drew^ 
And oft he stopt and turned his ]:ead. 
As by fits the night wind blew ; 

For trampling round by Cheviot edge 

Were heard the troopers keen, 
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge 
j The death-shot fiash'd between. 

! The moonbeams through the misty shower 
j On yon dark cavern tell ; 
Through the cloudy night the snow gleam'd 
white. 
Which sunbeam ne'er could quell. 
*' Yon cavern dark is rough and rude, 

And cold its jaws of snow ; 
But more rough and rude are the men of 
blood. 
That hunt my life oelov/! 
'♦Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell, 

Was hewn by demon's liands ; 
But I had louid * nielle with the fiends of 
hell, 
Than with Chvers and his band." 
He heard the dscp-mouth'd bloodhonncj 
bark, 
He heard the horses neigh, 
He plunged him in the cavern dark, 

And downward sped his way. 
Now faintly down the winding path 

Came the cry of the faulting hound, 
And the mutter'd oath of baulked wrath 
Was lost in hollow sound. 

^Ifffur-d' i. s, liefer— jatksx. 



FRAGMENTS. 



459 



He threw liim on the fiinted fioor, 

And held his breath for fear; 
He rose and 1. tte.- cursed his foes, 

As the sounus died on his ear. 

** O bare thine arm, thou battling L 

For Scotland's wandering band ; 
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the 
sword, 

And sweep him from the land ! 
" Forget not thou thy people's groans 

From dark Dunnotter's tower, 
Mixed with the sea-fowl's shrilly moans, 

And ocean's bursting roar ! 
" O, in fell Clavers' hour- of pride, 

Even in his mightiest day, 
As bold he strides through conquest's tide, 

O stretch him on the clay ! 
" His widow and his little ones, 

O may their tower vi trust 
Remove its strong foundation stones, 

And crush them in the dust ! " — 
" Sweet prayers to me," a voice replied. 

Thrice welcome guest of mine ! " 
And glimmering on the cavern side, 

A light was seen to shine. 
An aged man, in amice brown, 

Stood by the wanderer's side, 
By powerful charm, a dead man's arm 

The torch's light supplied. 

From each stiff finger stretch'd upright, 

Arose a ghastly flame, 
That waved not in the blast of light 

Which through the cavern came. 
O, deadly blue was that taper's hue 

That flamed the cavern o'er ; 
But more deadly blue was the ghastly hue 

Of his eyes, who the taper bore. 
He laid on his head a hand like lead, 

As heavy, pale, and cold — • 
" Vengeance be thine, thou guest of mine. 

If thy heart be firm and bold. 

" But if faint thy heart, the caitiff fear 

Thy recreant sinews know. 
The mountain erne thy heart shall tear, 

Thy nerves the hooded crow." 
The wanderer raised him undismay'd : 

" My soul, by dangers steel'd. 
Is stubborn as my border biadq. 

Which never knew to yield. 

" And if thy power can speed the liour 

Of vengeance on my foes, 
Theirs* be the fate from bridge and gate, 

To feed the hooded crows." 



The Brownie looked him in the face, 

And his color fled witli speed — 
" I fear me," quoth he, " uneath it will be 

To match thy word and deed. 

" In ancient days when English bands 

Sore ravaged Scotland fair. 
The sword and shield of Scottish land 

Was valiant Haibert Kerr. 

" A warlock loved the warrior well, 

Sir Michael Scott by name, 
And he sought for his sake a spell to make. 

Should the Southern foeman tame. 

" ' Look, thou,' he said, ' from Cessford head. 

As the July sun sinks low, 
And when glimmermg white on Cheviot's 
height 
Thou shalt spy a wreath of snow, 
The spell is complete which shall bring to 
thy feet 
The haughty Saxon foe.' 

" For many a year wrought the wizard here, 

In Cheviot's bosom lew, 
Till the spell was complete, and in July's 
heat 

Appear'd December's snow. 
But Cessford' s Haibert never came 

The wondrous cause to know. 

" For years before in Bowden aisle 

The warrior's bones had lain. 
And after short while, by female guile, 

Sir Michael Scott was slain. 

" But me and my brethren in this cell 

His mighty charms retain, — 
And he that can quell the powerful spell 

Shall o'er broad Scotland reign,'' 

He led him through an iron door 

And up a winding stair, 
And in wild amaze' did the wanderer gaze 

On the sight which opened there. 

Through the gloomy night flashed ruddy 
light,— 

A thousand torches glow ; 
The cave rose high, like the vaulted sky. 

O'er stalls in double row. 

In every stall of that endless hall 
Stood a steed in barbing bright ; 

At the foot of each steed, all arm'd save the 
head, 
Was stretch'd a stalwart knight. 



45o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In each mail'd hand was a naked brand ; 

As they lay on the black bull's hide, 
Each visas^e stern did upwards turn, 

With eyeballs fixed and wide. 

A laancegay strons:, full twelve ells long, 

By every warrior hung ; 
At each pommel there, for battle yare, 

A Jedwood axe was slung. 

The casque hung near each cavalier ; 

The plumes waved mournfully 
At every thread which the wanderer made 

Through the hall of graniarye. 

The ruddy beam of th3 torches' gleam 

That glared the warrior on, 
Reflected light from armor bright, 

In noontide splendrr shone. 

And onward seen in lustre sheen, 

Still lengthening on the sight, 
Through the boundless hail stood steeds 
in stall, 

And by each lay a sable knight. 

Still as the dead lay each horseman dread, 
And moved nor limb nor tongue ; 

Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff. 
Nor hoof nor bridle rung. 

No sounds through all the spacious hall 

The deadly still divide, 
Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted 
roof 

To the wanderer's step replied. 

At length before his wondering eyes, 

On an iron column borne, 
Of antique shape, and giant size, 

Appear'd a sword and horn. 

^^ Now choose thee here," quoth his leader, 

" Thy venturous fortune try ; 
Thy woe and weal, thy boot and bale. 

In yon brand and bugle lie." 

To ths fatal brand he mounted his hand, 

l?ut his soul did quiver and quail ; 
Tiie life-blood did start to his shuddering 
heart, 

And left him wan and pale. 
Tlie brand he forsook, and the horn he took 

To 'say a gentle sound ; 
But so wild a blast from the bugle brast, 

That the Cheviot rock'd around. 

From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas. 

The awful bugle rung , 
On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal, 

To arms the warders sprung. 



With clank and clang the cavern rang, 
The steeds did stamp and neigh ; 

And loud v/as the yell as each warrior fell 
Sterte up with hoop and cry. 

"Woe, woe," they cried, "thou catifl 
coward, . 

That ever thou wert born I ,/" 

Why drew ye not the knightly sword / 

Before ye blew the horn I " 

The morning on the moun*-a n shone, 

And on the bloody ground 
Hurl'd from the cave with shiver'd bone, 

The mangled wretch was found. 

And still beneath the cavern dread. 

Among the glidders gray, 
And shapeless stone with lichens spread 

Marks were the wanderer lay." 



CHEVIOT. 



1799. 
• « « • * 
Go sit old Cheviot's crest below, 
And pensive mark the lingering snow 

In all his scaurs abide, 
And slow dissolvmg from the hill 
In many a sightless, soundless rill, 
Feed sparkling Bowmont's tide. 

Fair shines the stream by bank and lea 
As wimpling to the eastern sea 

She seeks Till's sullen bed, 
Indenting deep the fatal plain, 
Where Scotland's noblest, brave in vain, 

Around their monarch bled. 

And westward hills on hills you see. 
Even as old Ocean's mightiest sea 

Heaves high her waves of foam, 
Dark and snow-ridged from Custfield' 

wold 
To the proud foot of Cheviot roll'd. 

Earth's mountain billows come. 



THE REIVER'S WEDDING. 

1802. 

O WILL ye bear a myrthful bourd ? 

Or will ye hear of courtesie ? 
Or will hear how a gallant lord 

Was wedded to a gay ladye ? 



FRAGMENTS. 



461 



" Ca'. out the kye," quo' the village herd, 

As he stood on the knowe, 
'* Ca' this ane"s nine and that ane's ten, 

And bauld Lord William's cow."— 

* Ah ! by my sooth," quoth William then, 

" And stands it that way now, 
Wlien knave and churl have nine and ten. 

That the lord has but his cow ? 

•' I swear by the light of the Michaelmas 
moon, 

And the might of Mary high. 
And by the edge of my braidsword brown, 

They shall soon say Harden's kye." 

He took a bugle frae his side, 

With names carv'd o'er and o'er — 

Full many a chief of meikle pride 
That border bugle bore — 

He blew a note baith sharp and hie, 
Till rock and water rang around — 

Three score of moss-troopers and three 
Have mounted at that bugle sound. 

The Michaelmas moon had enter'd then, 

And ere she wan the full, 
Ye might see by her light in Harden Glen 

A bow 0' kye and a bassen'd bull. 

And loud and loud in Harden tower 
Tlie quaigh gaed round wi' meikle glee ; 

For the English beef was brought in bower 
And the English ale flow'd merrilie. 

And mony a guest from Teviotside 
And Yarrow's .Braes was there ; 

Was never a lord in Scotland wide 
That made more dainty fare. 

They ate, they laugh'd, they sang and 
quaff'd, 

Till naught on board was seen. 
When knight and squire were boune to dine, 

But a spur of silver sheen. 

Lord William has ta'en his berry brown 
steed— 

A sore shent man was he ; 
" Wait ye, my guests, a little speed — 

Weel feasted ye shall be." 

He rode him down by Falsehope burn, 

His cousin dear to see, 
With him to take a riding turn — 

Wat-draw-the-sword was he. 

And when he came to Falsehope glen 
Beneath the tryscing-tree, 



On the smooth green was carved plain, 
" To Loch wood bound are we.'' 

" O if they be gane to dark Lochwood 

To drive the Warden's gear, 
Betwixt our names, 1 ween, there's feud ; 

i'U go and have my share : 

" For little reck I for Johnstontr's feud, 

The Warden though he be." 
So Lord William is away to dark Loch, 
wood, 

With riders barely three. 

The Warden's daughters m Lochv^od s^te^ 

Were all both fair and gay, 
All save the Lady Margaret, 

And she was wan and wae. 

The sister, Jean, had a full fair skip, 
And Grace was bau:d and braw ; 

But the leal-fast heart her breast withi** 
It weel was worth them a'. 

Her father's pranked her sisters twa 

With meikle joy and pride ; 
But Margaret maun seek Dundren»>«i-'* 
wa' — 

She ne'er can be a bride. 

On spear and casque by gallants gent 

Her sisters' scarfs were borne. 
But never at tilt or tournament 

Were Margaret's colors worn. 

Mer sisters rode to Thirlbtane 'oower, 

But she was left at hamc 
To wander round the gloomy tower, 

And sigh young Harden's name. 

' Of all the knights, the knight most fair, 

From Yarrow to the Tyne," 
Soft sigh'd the maid, "is Harden's heir, 
But ne'er can he be mine ; 

" Of all the maids, the foulest maid 

From Teviot to the Dee, 
Ah ! " sighing sad, that lady said, 

" Can ne'er young Harden's be."— 

She looked up the briery glen. 

And up the mossy brae., 
And she saw a score of her father's men 

Yclad in the Johnstone gray. 

fast and fast they downwards sped 

The moss and briers among, 
And in the midst the troopers led 
A shackled knight along. 



DRAMATIC PIECES. 



HALIDON HILL; 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY 



frtfaa. 



The subject is to be found in Scottish history ; but not to overload so slight a publication with 
antiquarian research, or quotations from obscure chronicles, it may be sufficient to refer the 
reader to Pinkerton's History of Scotland, vol. i. p. 72. 

The Regent of the sketch is a character purely imaginary. The tradition of the Swinton 
family, which still survives in a lineal descent, and to which the author has the honor to be 
related, avers, that the Swinton who fell at Homildon had slain Gordon's father ; which seems 
sufficient ground for adopting that circumstance into the following dramatic sketch, though it is 
rendered improbable by other authorities. 

If any reader will take the trouble of looking at Froissart, Fordun, or other historians of the 
period, he will find that the character of the Lord of Swinton, for strength, courage, and con- 
duct, is by no means exaggerated. 

Abbotsford, 1872. W. S. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



SCOTTISH. 

The Regent of Scotland. 

Gordon, ] 

Swinton, 

Lennox, 

Sutherland, 

Ross, 

Maxwell, 

Johnston, 

LiNDESAV. 



! Scottish chiefs and 



Adam De Vipont, a Knight Templar. 

The Prior of Maison-Dieu. 

Reynald, Swintoii's Squire. 

Hob Hattely, a Border Moss-Trooper. 

Heralds. 

ENGLISH. 

King Edward III. 

Chandos, 

Percy, 

Ribaumont, 

The Abbot of Walthamstow. 



English and Norman 
Nobles. 



ACT I.— Scene L 
The northern side of the eminence of Hali- 
don. The hack Scene refresetits the 
summit of the ascent, occupied by the 
Rear-guard of the Scottish army. Bodies 
of artned Men appear as advancing 
from different points^ to join the main 
Body. 
Enter De Vipont and the Prior of 

Maison-Dieu. 
ViP. No farther, Father — here I need no 
guidance — 
(462) 



I have already brought your peaceful step 
Too near the verge of battle. 

Pri. Fain would I see you join some 

Baron's banner, 
Before I say farewell. The honor'd 

sword 
That fought so well in Syria, should not 

wave 
Amid the ignoble crowd. 
ViP. Each spot is noble in a pitched 

field. 
So that a man has room to fight and fall 

on*t. 



HALIDON HILL, 



463 



But I shall find out friends. 'Tis scarce 
twelve years 

Since I left Scotland for the wars of Pa- 
lestine, 

And then the flower of all the Scottish 
nobles 

Were known to me ; and I, in my degree, 

Not all unknown to them, 

Pri. Alas! there have been changes since 
that time ! 

The Royal Bruce, with Randolph, Dou- 
glas, Grahame, 

Then shook in field the banners which now 
moulder 

Over their graves i' the chancel. 
Vix. And thence comes it, 

That while 1 look'd on many a well-known 
crest 

And blazon'd shield, as hithervvard we 
came, 

The faces of the barons who display'd 
them 

Were all unknown to me. Brave youths 
theyseem'd ; 

Yet, surely, fitter to adorn the tilt-yard, 

Than to be leaders of a war. Their fol- 
lowers, 

Young like themselves, seem like them- 
selves unpracticed — 

I^ook at their battle-rank. 

Pri. I cannot gaze on't with undazzled 
eye, 

So thick the rays dart back from shield and 
helmet. 

And sword and battle-axe, and spear and 
pennon. 

Sure 'tis a gallant show ! The Bruce him- 
self 

Hath often conquer'd at the head of 
fewer 

And worse appointed followers. 
ViP. Ay, but 'twas Bruce that led them. 
Reverend Father, 

'Tis not the falchion's weight decides a \ 
combat ; | 

It is the strong and skilful hand that wields 
it. I 

111 fate, that we should lack the noble ' 
King, \ 

And all his champions now ! Time call'd 
them not, 

For when 1 parted hence for Palestine, 

The brows of most were free from grizzl'd 
hair. 
Pri. Too true, alas ! But well you know, 
in Scotland 



are silver'd 



underneath the 
them. 



Few hairs 

helmet ; 
'Tis cowls like mine which hide 

'Mongst the laity, 
War's the rash reaper, who thrusts in his 

sickle 
Before the grain is white. In threescore 

years 
And ten, which I have seen, I have cu:- 

lived 
Well-nigh two generations of our nobles 
The race which holds yon summit ib ths 
third. 
ViP. Thou mayst outlive them also. 
Pri. Heaven forfcnd ) 

My prayer shall bC; chat Heaven wil) 

close my eyes, 
Before they look upon the wrath to come. 
Vip. Retire, retire, ijnod Father!-- 
Pray for Scotland - 
Think not on uil:. Her-; rom'is an ancieni 

friend, 
Brother in aims, with ^vbom to-day I'll 

join me. 
Back to youf choir, assemble all your 

broth.;rhood, 
And weary Hcavtn with prayers for 
victory. 
Pri. Heaven's bles.sing rest with thee, 
Champion of Heaven, and of thy suffering 
country I 

\Exit Prior. Vipont draws a 
little aside and lets down the 
beaver of his helmet. 

Enter Swinton, followed by Reynald 
a7id others^ to whom he speaks as he 
enters. 

Swi. Halt here, and plant my pennon, 
till the Regent 
Assign our band its station in the host. 
Rev. That must be by the Standard 
We have had 
That right since good Saint David's reign 

at least. 
Fain would I see the Marcher would dis- 
pute it. 
Swi. Peace, Reynald 1 Where the 
general plants the soldier. 
There is his place of honor, and there only 
His valor can win worship. Thou'rt of 

those 
Who would have war's deep art bear the 

wild semblance 
01 some disorder'd hunting, where, peli 
mell, 



64 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WCRp:S. 



?B 



Each trusting to the swiftness of his horse, 
Gallants press on to see the quarry fall. 
jfoa steel-clad Southrons, Reynald, are no 

deer; 
4nd England's Edward is no stag at bay. 
ViP. (advancing). There needed not, to 

blazon forth the Swinton, 
His ancient burgonet, the sabL Boar 
Chain'd to the gnarl'd oak, — nor his proud 

step, 
Nor giant stature, nor the pondrous mace, 
Which only he, of Scotland's realm, can 

wield ; 
rlis discipline and wisdom marK the leader, 
'^s doth his frame the champion H?.!!^ 

brave Swinton ! 
Swi. Brave Templar, thanks ! Such your 

cross'd shoulder speaks you , 
But the closed visor, which conceals your 

features 
Forbids more knowledge. Umfraville, per 

haps— 
Vip. {uncioshig his helmet') No , cne ess 

worthy of our sacred Order 
^et, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd my 

features 
Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton 
Will welcome Symon V'ipont. 
Swi. (^embracing htm), As the blithe 

reaper 
Welcomes a practiced mate, when the ripe 

harvest 
Lies deep before him, and the sun is 

high ! 
Thou'it follow von old pennon, wilt thou 

not ? 
'Tis tatter'd since thou saw'st it, and the 

Boar-heads 
Look as if brought from off some Christmas 

board, 
Where knives had notch'd them deeply, 
Vip. Have with them, ne'ertheless. The 

Stuart's Chequer, 
The boody Heart of Douglas, Ross's 

Lymphads, 
Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal 

Lion, 
Rampant in golden treasure, wins me from 

th^m. 
We'll back the Boar-heads bravely. I see 

round them 
A chosen band of lances — some well-known 

to me. 
Where's the main body of thy followers ? 
Swi. Symon de Vipont, thou do.st see 

them all 



That Swinton's bugle-horn, can call to 
b,i*tle. 

However loud it rings. There's not a boy 

Left in my halls, whose arm has strength 
enough 

To bear a sword— there's not a man be- 
hind, 

However old, who moves without a staiT. 

Striplings and graybeards, every one is 
here. 

And here all should be — Scotland neec5« 
them all. 

And more and better men, were each a 
Hercules, 

And yonder handful centupled. 
V/p. A thousand followers — such, with 
friends and kinsmen, 

Allies and vassals, thou wert wont to lead — 

A thousand followers shrunk to sixty 
lances 

In twelve vears' space ? — And thy brave §ons, 
Sir A'lan ? 

Alas ! I fear to ask. 
Swi All slain, De Vipont. In my empty 
home 

A puny babe lisps to a widow' d mother, 

" Where is my grandsire ? wherefore do you 
weep .■* " 

But for that prattler, Lyulph's house is 
heirless, 

I'm an old oak, from which the foresters 

Have hew'd four goodly boughs, and left be- 
side me 

Only a sappling which the fawn may crush 

As he springs over it. 
Vip. All slain ?—*las ! 
Swi. Ay, all, De Vipont And their at- 
tributes, 

John with the Long Spear — Archibald 
with the Axe — 

Richard the Ready— and my youngest dar- 
ling, 

My Fair-hair'd William — do but now sur- 
vive 

In measures which the gray-hair'd minstrels 
sing. 

When they make maidens weep. 

Vip. These wars with England they havs 
rooted out 

The flowers of Christendom. Knights, who 
might win 

The sepulchre of Christ from the rude 
heathen. 

Fall in unholy warfare ? 
Swi. Unholy warfare? ay, well hast thou 
named it ; 



^ 



HALIDON HILL. 



465 



But not with England — would her clothyard 
shafts 

Had bored tlieir cuirasses I Their Hves had 

been 
Lost like their grandsire's, in the bold de- 
fence 
Of their dear country — but in private feud 
With the proud Gordon, fell my Long- 

spear'd John, 
lie with the Axe, and he men call'd the 

Ready, 
Ay, and my Fair-hair'd Will — the Gordon's 

wrath 
Devour' d my gallant issue. 

ViP. Since thou dost weep, their death is 

unavenged? 
Swi. Templar, what think's thou me? 

See yonder rock, 
From which the fountain gushes — is it less 
Compact of adamant, though waters flow 

from it ? 
Firm hearts have moister eyes. — They are 

avenged ; 
I wept not till they were — till the proud 

Gordon 
Had with his life blood dyed my father's 

sword, 
In guerdon that he thinn'd my father's 

lineage, 
And then I wept my sons; and, as the 

Gordon 
Lay at my feet, there was a tear for liim, 
Which mingled with the rest. We had been 

friends, 
Had shared the banquet and the chase to- 
gether, 
Fought side by side, — and our first cause of 

strife, 
Woe to the pride of both, was but a light 

one! 
ViP. You are at feud, then, with the 

mighty Gordon? 
Swi. Atdeadly feud. Here in this Border- 
land, 
Where the sire's quarrels descend upon the 

son, 
As*due a part of his inheritance, 
As the strong castle and the ancient blazon, 
Where private Vengeance holds the scales 

of justice, [lously 

Weighing each drop of blood as scrupu 
As jews or Lombards balance silver pence. 
Not m this land, 'twixt Sol way and Saint 

Abb's, 

Rages a bitterer feud than mine and theirs, 
The Swinton and the Gordon. 



ViP. You, with some threescore lances— 

and the Gordon 
Leading a tiiousand followers. 

Swi. You rate him far too low. Since 

you sought Palestine, 
He hath had grants of baronies and lord« 

ships 
In the far-distant North. A thousand 

horse 
His southern friends and vassals always 

number'd. 
Add Badenoch kerne, and horse from Dey 

and Spey, 
He'll count a thousand more.— And now, De 

Vipont, 
If the Boar-heads seem in your eyes less 

worthy 
For lack of followers — seek yonder stand- 
ard — 
The bounding Stag, with a brave host 

around it ; 
There the young Gordon makes his earliest 

field, 
And pants to win his spurs. His father's 

friend, 
As well as mine, thou wert — go, join liis 

pennon, 
And grace him with thy presence. 

ViP. When you were friends, I was the 

friend of both, 
And now I can be enemy to neither; 
But my poor person, though but slight the 

aid, 
Joins on this field the banner of the two 
Wiiich hath the smallest following. 
Swi. Spoke like the generous Knight,. 

who gave up all. 
Leading and lordship, in a heathen land 
To fight, a Christian soldier] Yet, 10, 

earnes:, 
I pray, De Vipont, you would join the 

Gordon 
In this high battle. 'Tis a noble youth,— 
So fame doth vouch him, — amorous, quick, 

and valiant ; 
Takes knighthood, too, this day, and v/ell 

may use 
His spurs too rashly in the wish to win 

them. 
A friend like thee beside him in the fight, 
Were worth a hundred spears, to reign liis 

valor 
And temper it with prudence : — 'tis the aged 
i eagle 
Teaches his b/ood to gaze upon the sun, 
With eye undazzled. 



466 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ViP. Alas I brave Swinton ! Would'st 
thou train the hunter 
That soon must bring thee to the bay? 

Your custom, 
Vour most unchristian, savage, fiend-like 

custom, 
Binds Gordon to avenge his father's death, 
Swi. Why, be it so i 1 look for nothing 
else: 
My part was acted when I slew his father, 
Avenging my four sons— -Young Gordon's 

svv'ord, 
If it should find my heart, can ne'er in- 
flict there 
A pang so poignant as his father's did. 
But I would paish by a noble hand. 
And such will his be if he bear him nobly. 
Nobly and wisely on this field of Halidon. 

Enter a Pursuivant. 

Pur. Sir Knights, to council I — 'tis the 

Regent's order, 
That knights and men of leading meet 

him instantly 
Before the royal standard. Edward's army 
Is seen from the hill summit. 

Swi. Say to the Regent, we obey his 

orders. \Exit Pursuivant. 

\To Revnald.] Hold thou my casque, 

and furl my pennon up 
Close to the staff. 1 will not show my 

crest, 
Not standard, till the common foe shall 

challenge them, 
ni wake no civil strife, nor tempt the 

Gordon 
With aught that's like defiance. 

ViP. Will he not know your features? 
Swi. He never saw me. In the distant 

North, 
Against his will, 'tis said, his friends de- 

tain'd him 
During his nurture— caring not, belike, 
To trust a pledge so precious near the 

Boar-tusks. 
It was a natural but needless caution ; 
I wage no war with children, for I think 
Too deeply on mine own. 

Vip, I hcve thought on it, and will see 

the Gordon 
As we go hence to council. I do bear 
A cross, which binds me to be Christian 

oriest, 
As well as Chrbtian champion. God may 

grant, 



That I, at once his father's friend and 

yoursj 
May make some peace betwixt you. 

S'wi. When that your priestly zealj and 
knightly valour, 
Shall force the grave to render up the dead. 
\Exenni sever aUy, 

Scene II. 

Ths Summit of Holidon Hiih before the 
Regenfs Tent. The Royal Standard 
of Scotland is seen in the backgrortjid^ 
with the Pennons and Banners of the 
principal Nobles around it. 

Coitncil of Scottish Nobles and Chiefs. 
Sutherland, Ross, Lennox, Max- 
well, a7td other Nobles of the highest 
rank^ are close to the Regent's fcrson^ 
and in the act of kcoi debate. YiroNT 
zvith Gordon and others remain 
grouped at some distance on the right 
hand of the Stage. On the left, stand- 
ing also apart, is Swinton, alo/ie and 
bare-headed. The Nobles ore dressed 
in Highland or Lowland habits, as his- 
torical costume requires. Trumpets^ 
Heralds^ &'c. are in attendance, 

Len. Nay, Lordings, put no shama 

upon my counsels. 
I did but say, if we retired a little, 
We should have fairer field and better 

vantage. 
I've seen King Robert — ay, the Bruce 

Inmself — 
Retreat six leagues in length, and think 

no shame on't. 
Reg. Ay, but King Edward sent a 

haughty message, 
Defying us to battle on this field, 
This very hill of Halidon ; if we leave it 
Unfought withal, it squares not with or.r 

honor. 
Swi. {apart). A perilous honor tliat 

allows the enemy. 
And such an enemy as this same Edwart^ 
To choose our field of battle I He knows 

how 
To make our Scottish pride betray it» 

master 
Into the pitfall. 

\pu7-i7tg this speech the debate nm^n^ 
the Nobles is continued. 
SuTH, {aloud). We will not backona 

furlong — not one yard, 
No, nor one inch ; where'er we find tlie 

foe, 



HA LI DON HILL. 



aci 



Or where the fos finds us, there will we 

light him. 
Retreat will dull the spirit of our followers, 
\Vi;o now stand prompt for battle. 

Ross. My Lords, metliinks great Mor- 

archat * has doubts, 
That, if his Northern clans once turn the 

seam 
Of their check 'd hose behind, it will be 

hard 
To halt and rally them, 

SuTH. Say'st thou, MacDonnell ?— Add 

anotlier falsehood, 
And name when Morarchat was coward 

or traitor ? 
Thine island race, as chronicles can tell, 
Were oft affianced to the Southron cause ; 
Loving the weight and temper of their 

gold. 
More than the weight and temper of their 

steel. 
Reg. Peace, my lords, ho. 
Ross. {throzving dotvn his glove.) 

MacDonnell will not peace! There lies 

my pledge, 
Proud Morarchat, to witness thee a liar. 
Max. Brought 1 all Nithsdale from the 

Western Border; 
Left I my towers exposed to foraying 

England, 
And thieving Annandale, to see such mis- 
rule 1 
John. Who speaks of Annandale ? 
Dare Maxwell slander 
The gentle House of Lochwood ?t 

Reg. Peace, Lordings, once again. We 

represent 
The Majesty of Scotland — in our presence 
Brawling is treason. 
SuTH. Were it in presence of the King 

himself, 

What should prevent my saying 

Enter Lindesay. 
Lin. You must determine quicicly 

Scarce a mile 
Parts our vanguard from Edward's. On 

the plain 
Bright gleams of armor flash through 

clouds of dust, 
Like stars through frost-mist — steeds 

neigh, and weapons clash — 

_ * Morarchate in tlie ancient Gaelic designa- 
tion oi tlie Earls of Sutherland. 

t- Lochwood Castle was the ancient seat of 
the Jchnstones, Lords of Annandale. 



And arrows soon will whistle — the worst 

sound 
That waits on English war. — You must 

determine. 
Reg. We are determined. We will 

spare proud Edward 
Half of the ground that parts us. — On- 
ward, Lords ; 
Saint Andrew strike for Scotland ! We 

will lead 
The middle ward ourselves, the Royal 

Standard 
Display'd beside us ; and beneath its 

shadow 
Shall the young gallants, whom we knight 

this day, 
Fight for their golden spurs. — Lennox, 

thou'rt wise. 
And wilt obey command — lead thou the 

rear. 
Len. The rear? — why I the rear? The 

van were fitter 
For him who fought abreast with Robert 

Bruce. 
Swi, {apart.) Discretion hath forsaken 

Lennox too ! 
The wisdom he was forty years in gathering 
Has left him in an instant. 'Tis contagious 
Even to witness frenzy. 

SuTH. The Regent hath determined 

well. The rear 
Suits him the best who counsell'd our re- 
treat. 
Len. Proud Northern Thane, the van 

were soon the rear, 
Were thy disorder'd followers planted 

there. 
SuTH. Then, for that very word I make 

a vow. 
By my broad Earldom, and my father's 

soul. 
That, if I have not leading of the van, 
1 will not fight to-day ! 

Ross. Morarchat ! thou the leading of 

the van ! 
Not wliilst MacDonnell lives. 
Swi. {apart.) Nay, then a stone would 

speak. 
\_Addresses the Regent.J May't please 

your Grace, 
And you, great Lords, to hear an old 

man's counsel, 
That hath seen fights enow. These open 

bickerings 
Dishearten all our host. It that youi 

Grace 



46S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



With tliese great Earls anrt Lords must 

needs debate, 
Let thp. closed tent conceal your disagree- 

Hient ; 
Else 'twill be said, ill fares it with the 

flock. 
If shepherds wrangle when the wolf is 

nigh. 
Reg. The old Knight counsels well. 

Let every Lord 
Or Chief, who leads five hundred men or 

more. 
Follow to council — others are excluded — 
We'll have no vulgar censurers of our 

conduct — \_Looki7tg at 'S)\^\-H'XOi<s. 

Young Gordon, your high rank and 

numerous following 
Give you a seat with us, though yet un- 

knighted. 
Gordon. I pray you, pardon me. My 

youth's unfit 
To sit in council, when that Knight's gray 

hairs 
And wisdom wait without. 

Reg. Do as you will ; we deign not bid 

you twice. 

[The Regent, Ross, Suther- 
land, Lennox, Maxwell, 6^r, 
enter the Tent. The yest remain 
grouped about the Stage. 

GoR. {obse7'vi7ig Swi.) That helmetless 

old Knight, his giant stature. 
His awful accents of rebuke and wisdom, 
Have caught my fancy strangely. He doth 

seem 
Like to some vision'd form which I have 

dream'd of. 
But never saw with waking eyes till now. 
I will accost him. 

ViP. Pray you, do not so ; 
Anon I'll give you reason why you should 

not. 

Therr;'s other work in hand 

GoR. I will but ask his name. There's 

in his presence 
Somethmg that works upon me like a spell, 
Or like the feeling made my childish ear 
Dote upon tales of superstitious dread, 
Attracting while they chill'd my heart with 

fear. 
N(nv, born the Gordon, I do feel right well 
I'm bound to fear nought earthly — and 1 fear 

nought. 

.I'll know who this man is 

[Accosts SWINTON. 



Sir Knight, I pray you, of your gentle 

courtesy, 
To tell your honor'd name. I am ashamed, 
Being unknown in arms, to say that mine 
Is Adam Gordon. 
Swinton {shows emotion, but instantly 

subdues it). It is a name that soundeth 

in my ear 
Like to a death-knell — ay, and hke the 

call 
Of the shrill trumpet to the mortal lists ; 
Yet, 'tis a name which ne'er hath been dis- 

honor'd. 
And never will, I trust — most surely never 
By such a youth as thou. 

GoR. There's a mysterious courtesy in 

this. 
And yet it yields no answer to my question. 
I trust you liokl the Gordon not unworthy 
To know the name he asks ? 

Svvi. Worthy of all that openness and 

honor 
May show to friend or foe — but, for my 

name, 
Vipont will show it you ; and, if it sounds 
Harsh in your ear, remember that it knells 

there 
But at your own request. This day, at 

least, 
Thougli seldom wont to keep it in conceal- 
ment, 
As there's no cause I should, you had not 

heard it. 

GoR. This strange 

ViP. The mystery is needful. Folbw 

me. [ They retire behind the side scene. 
Swi. {looking after them). 'Tis a brave 

youth. How blush'd his noble cheek. 
While youthful modesty, and the embarrass- 
ment 
Of curiosity, combined with wonder, 
And half suspicion of some slight intended, 
All mingled in the flush; but soon 'twill 

deepen 
Into revenge's glow. How slow is 

Vipont ! — 
I wait the issue, as I've seen spectators 
J'uspend the motion even of the eyehds. 
When the slow gunner, with his lighted 

match, 
Aijproach'd the charged cannon, in Uie act . 
To waken its dread slumbers. — Now 'tis 

out; 
He draws his sword, and rushes towards 

me, 
Who will not seek nor shun him. 



HALIDON HILL, 



469 



Enter Gordon, withheld by Vipont. 

ViP. Hold, fof the sake of Heaven ! O, 

for the sake 
Of your dear country, hokl ! — Has Swinton 

slain your father, 
And must you, therefore, be yourself a pat • 

ricide, 
And stand recorded as the selfish traitor, 
Who in her hour of need, his country's 

cause 
Deserts, that he may wreak a private 

wrong ? 
Look to yon banner — that is Scotland's 

standard ; 
Look to the Regent- he is Scotland's 

general ; 
Look to the English — they are Scotland's 

foemen ! 
Bethink thee, then, thou art a son of Scot- 
land, 
And think on nought beside. 

GoR. He hath come here to brave me ! — 

Off! unhand mc! — 
Tliou canst not be my father's ancient 

friend, 
That stand'st 'twixt me and him wlio slew 

my father. 
ViP. You know not Swinton. Scarce 

one passing thought 
Of his high mind was with you ; now, his 

soul 
Is fix'd on this day's battle. You might 

slay him 
At unawares, before he saw your blade 

drawn, — 
Stand still, and watch him close. 

Enter Maxwell /row the tent. 

Swi. How go our councils. Maxwell, may 

I ask ? 
Max. As wild, as if the very wind and 

sea 
Witli every breeze and every billow battled 
For their precedence. 

Swi. Most sure they are possess'd ! 

Some evil spirit, 
To mock their valor, robs tliem of discre- 
tion. 
Fie, fie upon 't! — O, that Dunfermline's 

tomb 
Could render up The Bruce ! that Spain's 

red shore 
Coulrl give us back the good Lord James of 

Douglas ! 



Or that fierce Randolph, with his voice of 
terror, 

Were here, to awe these brawlers to submis- 
sion ! 
ViP. to GoR. Thou hast perused him at 

more leisure now. 
GoR. I see the giant form which all men 
speak of, 

The stately port — but not the sullen eye, 

Not the bloodthirsty look, that should 
belong 

To him that made me orphan. I. shr.l 
need 

To name my father twice ere I can strike 

At such gray hairs, and face of such com- 
mand ; 

Yet my hand clenches on my falchion hilt, 

In token he shall die. 
ViP. Need 1 again remind you, that the 
place 

Permits not private quarrel ? 
GoR. I'm calm. I will not seek— nay, I 
will shun it — 

And yet methinks that such debate's the 
fashion. 

You've heard how taunts, reproaches, and 
the lie, 

The lie itself, have flown from nioath to 
mouth ; 

As if a band of peasants were disputing 

About a foot-ball match, rather than 
Chiefs 

Were ordering a battle. I am young, 

And lack experience; tell me, brave De 
Vipont, 

Is such the fashion of your wars in Pales- 
tine? 
ViP. Such it at times hath been ; and 
then the Cross 

Hath sunk before the Crescent. Heaven's 
cause 

Won us not victory where wisdom was 
not. — 

Behold yon English host come slowly 
on, 

With equal front, rank marshall'd upon 
rank, 

As if one spirit ruled one moving body ; 

The leaders, in their places, each prepared 

To charge, support, and rally, as the for- 
tune 

Of changeful battle needs ; then look en 
ours. 

Broken, disjointed, as the tumbling surges 

Which the winds wake at random. Look oh 
both, 



470 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And dread the issue; yet there might t)e 

succor. 
GoR. We're fearfully o'ermatch'd in dis- 

ciphne ; 
So even my inexperienced eye can judge. 
What succor save in Heaven ? 

ViP. Heaven acts by human means. The 

artist's skill 
Supplies in war, as in mechanic crafts, 
Peficiency of tools. There's courage, wis- 
dom, 
^nd skill enough, live in one leader here, 
\s, flung into the balance, might avail 
To counterpoise the odds 'twixt that ruled 

host 
A.nd our wild multitude. — I must not name 

him. 
GoR. I guess, but dare not ask. — What 

band is yonder. 
Arranged as closely as the English dis- 
cipline 
Hath marshall'd their best files ? 

ViP Know'st thou not the pennon ? 
One day, perhaps, thou'lt see it all too 

closely ; — 
It is Sir Alan Swinton's. 

GoR. These, then, are his, — the relics of 

his power ; 
Yet worth an host of ordinary men, — 
And I must slay my country's sagest 

leader. 
And crush by numbers that determined 

handful, 
When most my country needs their practised 

aid. 
Or men will say, " There goes degenerate 

Gordon ; 
His father's blood is on the Swinton's 

sword. 
And his is in his scabbard I " ^Mitses. 

ViP. {apart). High blood and mettle, 

mix'd with early wisdom, 
Sparkle in this brave youth. If he survive 
This evil-omen'd day, I pawn my word, 
That, in the ruin which I now forebode, 
Scotland has treasure left, — How close he 

eyes 
Each look and step of Swinton ! Is it 

hate, 
Or is it admiration, or are both 
Commingled strangely m that steady gaze ? 
[Swinton and Maxwell return 
from the. bottom of the stage. 
Max, The storm is laid at length amongst 
these counsellors J 
See, they come forth. 



Swi. And it is more than time ; 
For I can mark the vanguard archery 
Handling their quivers — bending up their 
bows. 

Enter the Regent and Scottish Lords , 

Reg. Thus shall it be, then, since we 
may no better, 
And, since no Lord will yield one jot of 

way 
To this high urgency, or give the vanguard 
Up to another's guidance, we will abide. 

them 
Even on this bent ; and as our troops are 

rank'd, 
So shall they meet the foe. Chief, nor 

Thane, 
Nor Noble, can complain of the preced- 
ence 
Which chanee has thus assign'd him. 

Swi. (apart). O, sage discipline, 
Tliat leaves to chance the marshalling of a 
battle ! 
GoR. Move him to speech, De Vipont. 
ViP. Move him I — Move whom ? 
GoR. Even him, whom, but brief space 
since. 
My hand did burn to put to utter silence. 
ViP. I'll move it to him. — Swinton, speak 
to them. 
They lack thy counsel sorely. 

Swi. Had I the thousand spears Avhich 
once I led, 
I had not thus been silent. But men's 

wisdom 
Is rated by their means. From the poor 

leader 
Of sixty lances, who seeks words of weight? 
GoR. {steps forward). Swinton, tliere's 
that of wisdom on thy brow. 
And valor in thine eye, and that of peril 
In this most urgent hour, that bids me 

say,— 
Bids me, thy mortal foe, say, — Swinton, 

speak. 
For King and Country's sake. 

Swi. Nay, if that voice commands me, 
speak I will ; 
It sounds as if the dead lays charge on me. 
Reg. {to Lennox, with whom he has 
been C07is7i/ting). 'Tis better than you 
think. This broad hill-side 
Affords fair compass for our power's dis^ 

play. 
Rank above rank rising in seemly tieis'; 



HALIDON HILL. 



471 



So that the rearward stands as fair and I Swi. 'Tis a proud word to speak ; but he 

open i who fought 

Swi. As e'er stood mark before an EngUsh ! Long under Robert Bruce, may something 

archer. \ guess, 

Reg. Who dares to say so ? — Who is't | Without communication with the dead, 
dare impeach At what he would have counsell'd. — Bruce 

Our rule of discipline ? ' had bidden ye 

Swi. a poor Knight of these Marches, ' Review your battle-order, marshall'd 
good my Lord ; " | broadly 



Alan of Swinton, who hath kept a house 

here, 
He and his ancestry, since the old days 
Of Malcolm, called the Maiden. 

Reg. You have brought here, even to this 

pitched field, 
In which the Royal Banner is display'd, 
1 think some sixty spears, Sir Knight of 

Swinton ; 
Our musters name no more 



Here on the bare hill-side, and bidden you 
mark 

Yon clouds of Southron archers, bearing 
down 

To the green meadow-lands which stretch 
beneath — 

The Bruce had warn'd you, not a shaft to- 
day 

But shall find mark within a Scottish 
bosom, 



Swi. I brought each man I had ; and i If thus our field be order'd. The callow 
Chief, or Earl, j boys, 

Thane, Duke, or dignitary, brings no | Who draw but four-foot bows, shall gall our 

more : | front, 

And with them brought I what may here be ' While on our mainward, and upon tha 



useful- 
An aged eye ; which, what in England, 

Scotland, 
Spain, France, and Flanders, hith seen fifty 

battles, 
And ta'en some judgment of them ; a stark 

hand too, 
Which plays as with a straw with this same 

mace, — 
Which if a young arm here can wield more 

lightly, 
I never more will offer word of counsel. 
Len. Hear him, my Lord ; it is the noble 

Swinton — 
He hath had high experience. 

Max. He is noted 

The wisest warrior 'twixt the Tweed and 

Solway, — 
I do beseech you, hear him. 

John. Ay, hear the Swinton — hear stoiit 

old Sir Alan ; 
Maxwell and Johnstone both agree for 

once. 
Reg. Where's your impatience now. 
Late you were all for battle, would not 

hear 
Ourself pronounce a word — and now you 

gaze 
On yon old warrior, in his antique armor, 
As if he were arisen from the dead, 
To bring us Bruvc's counsel for the 

battle. 



The cloth-yard shafts shall fall like death's 

own darts, 
And, tiiough blind men chscharge them, find 

a mark. 
Thus sliall we die the death of slaughtcr'd 

deer. 
Which, di-iven into the toils, are shot at 

ease 
By boys and women, while they toss aloft 
All idly and in vain their branchy horns. 
As we shall shake our unavailing spears. 
Reg. Tush, tell not me! if their shot fall 

like hail. 
Our men have Milan coats to bear it out. 
Swi. Never did armorer temper steel oa 

stithy 
That made sure fence against an Er;glish 

arrow ; 
A cobweb gossamer were guard as good 
Against a wasp-sting. 

Reg. Who fears a wasp-sting ? 
Swi. I, my Lord, fear none ; 

Yet should a wise man brush the insect off. 
Or he may smart for it. 

Reg. We'll keep the hill ; it is the van- 
tage ground 
When the main battle joins. 

Swi. It ne'er will join, while their light 

archery 
Can foil our spearmen and our barbed 

horse. 



45^2 



SCOTTS POETICAL V/ORKS. 



To hope Plantagenet wouli seek close 

combat 
Wlien he can conquer riskless, is to deem 
Sagacious Edward simpler than a b:ibe 
In battle knowledge. Keep the hill, my 

Lord, 
With the main body, if it is your pleasure ; 
But let a body of your chosen horse 
Make execution on yon waspish archers, 
I've done such work before, and love it 

well ; 
If 'tis your pleasnre to give me the leading, 
The dames of Sherwood, Inglewood, and 

Weardale, 
Shall sit in widowhood and long for 

venison, 
And long in vain. Whoe'er remembers 

Bannockburn, — 
And when shaTl Scotsman, till the last 

loud trumpet, 
Forget that stirring word ! — knows ^hat 

great battle 
Even thus was fought and won. 

Len. This is the shortest road to bandy 

blows ; 
For when the bills step forth and bows go 

back, 
Then is the moment that our hardy spear- 
men. 
With their strong bodies, and their stub- 
born hearts, 
And hmbs well knit by mountain exercise, 
At the close tug shall foil the short-breath'd 

Southron. 
Swi. I do not say the field will thus be 

won ; 
The English host is numerous, brave, and 

loyal; 
'Iheir Monarch most accomplish'd in v^rar's 

art, 

Skill'd, resolute, and wary 

Reg. And if your scheme secure not 

victory, 
What does it promise us ? 

Swi. This much at least, — 

Darkling we shall not die: the peasant's 

shaft, 
Loosen'd perchance without an aim or 

purpose. 
Shall not drink up the life-blood we derive 
From those famed ancestors, who made 

their breasts 
This frontier's barrier for a thousand 

years. 
We'll meet these Southron bravely hand to 

hand, 



And eye to eye, and weapon against 

weapon ; 
Each man who falls shall see the foe \yho 

strikes him. 
While our good blades are faithful to the 

hilts, 
And our good hands to these good blades 

are faithful, 
Blow shall meet blow, and none tall un- 
avenged — 
We shall not bleed alone. 

Reg. And this is all 

Your wisdom hath devised .' 

Swi. Not all ; for 1 would pray you, 

noble Lords, 
(If one, among the guilty guiltiest, might,) 
For this one day to charm to ten hours' res'- 
The never-dying worm of deadly feud, 
That gnaws our vexed hearts — thir-k no 

one foe 
Save Edward and his host : — days will 

remain, 
Ay, days by far too many will remain. 
To avenge old feuds or struggles lor pre 

cedence ; — 
Let this one day be Scotland's. — For my 

self. 
If there is any here may claim from mo 
(As well may chance) a debt of blood and 

hatred, 
My life is his to-morrow unresisting. 
So he to-day will let me do the best 
That my old arm may achieve for the dear 

country 
That's mother to us both. 

[Gordon shozvs mtich emotion 
dur'uig this atid the preceding 
speech c/ S w I N T o N . 
Reg. It is a dream — a vision !— if one 

troop 
Rush down upon the archers, all will 

follow, 
And order is destroy'd — we'll keep the 

battle-rank 
Our fathers wont to do. No more on't.— 

Ho! 
Where be those youths seek knighthood 

from our sword ? 
Her. Here are the Gordon, Somerville, 

and Hay, 
And Hepburn, with a score of gallants 

more. 
Reg. Gordon, stand forth. 
GoR. 1 i)ray your Grace fo:r;iv' nie. 

Reg. How ! seek you not for knight* 

hood ? 



HA LIDO N HILL, 



47.3 



GOR. I do thirst for't. 

But, pardon me — 'tis from anotlier sword. 
Reg. It is your Sovereign's — seelt 

you for a worthier ? 
GoR. Who would drink purely, seeks 

the secret fountain, 
How small soever — not the general stream, 
Though it be deep and wide. My lord, 

1 seek 
The boon of knighthood from the hon- 

our'd weapon 
Of the best knight, and of the sagest 

leader, 
That ever graced a ring of chivalry. 
— Therefore, I beg the boon on bended 

knee, 
Sven from Sir Alan Swinton. \KnccIs. 

Keg. Degenerate boy ! Abject at once 

and insolent ! — 
• See, Loi ds, he kneels to him that slew his 

father ! 
GoR {starting ?//). Shame be en him 

who speaks such shameful word ! 
Shame be on him, whose tongue would 

sow dissension, 
When most the time demands that native 

Scotsmen 
Forget each private wrong ! 

Swi, {interntpting him). Youth, since 

you crave m.e 
To be your sire in chivalry, I remind 

you 
War has its duties, Office has its rever- 
ence; 
Who governs m the Sovereign's name is 

Sovereign ; 
Crave the Lord Regent's pardon. 

GoR. You task me justly, and I crave 

his pardon, \^Bo7vs to the Regent. 

His and these noble Lords' ; and pray 

them all 
Bear witness to my words. — Ye noble 

presence, 
H?re I remit unto the Knight of Swinton 
All bitter memory of my father's slaughter, 
All thoughts of malice, hatred, and re- 
venge ; 
By no base fear or composition moved. 
But by the thought, that in our country's 

battle 
ATI hearts should be as one. I do forgive 

him 
As freely as I pray to be forgiven, 
And once more kneel to him to sue for 

knighthood. 
Swi. (affected, and drazving his sword). 



Alas ! brave youth 'tis I should kneel to 

you. [sword 

And, tendering thee the hdt of the 'eSJ 
That made tliee fatherless, bid thee use 

the point 
After thine own discretion. For thy 

boon- 
Trumpets, be ready— In the Holiest name, 
And in our Lady's and Saint Andrew's 

name, 

yroiiching his shotdderwith his sword. 
I dub thee knight ! — Arise, Sir Adam 

Gordon ! 
Be faithful, brave, and O, be fortunate, 
Should tliis ill hour permit I 

[ The trttmpets soiind ; the Heralds 
cry " Largesse," and the attend- 
ants shout " A Gordon 1 A Gor- 
don ! " 
Reg. Beggars and flat'terers I Peace, 

peace, I say ! 
We'll to the Standard J knights shall there 

be made 
Who will with better reason crave your 

clamor. 
Len. What of Swinton's counsel ? 
Here's Maxwell and myself think it worth 

noting. 
Reg. (jwith concentrated tndignatior). 
Let the best knight, and let the sagest 

leader — 
So Gordon quotes the man who slew his 

father.— 
With his old pedigree and heavy mace, 
Essay the adventure if it pleases him. 
With his fair threescore horse. As for 

ourselves. 
We will not peril aught upon the measure. 
GoR. Lord Regent, you mistake ; for if 

Sir Alan 
Shall venture such attack, each man who 

calls* 
The Gordon Chief, and hopes or fears 

from him 
Or good or evil, follows Swinton's banner 
In this achievement. 

Reg. Why, God ha' mercy ! This is of 

a piece. 
Let young and old e'en follow their own 

counsel, 
Since none will list to mine. 

Ross. The Border cockerel fain would 

be on horseback ; 
'Tis safe to be prepared for fight or flight 
And this comes of it to give Northern lands 
i To the false Norman blond. 



474 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



GoR. Hearken, proud Chief of Isles ! 
Within my stalls 
! have two hundred horse ; two hundred 

riders 
Mount guard upon my castle, who would 

tread 
Into the dust a thousand of your Red-shanks, 
Nor count it a day's service. 

Swi, Hear I this 

From thee, young man, and on the d^y of 

battle ? 
And to the brave MacDonnell ? 
GoR. 'Twas he that urged me ; but I am 

rebuked. 
Reo. He crouches like a leash-hound to 

his master ! * 
Swi. Each hound must do so that would 
head the deer — 
'Tis mongrel curs that snatch at mate or 
master. 
Reg. Too much of this. Sirs, to the 
Royal's tandard ! 
I bid you, in the name of good King 

David. 
Sound trumpets — sound for Scotland and 
King David ! 

\The Regent and the rest /:^o of, 
and the Scene closes. Manent 
Gordon, Swinton, ajid Vi- 
PONT, with Revnald and fol- 
Imvers. Lennox foLo-ivs the 
Regent ; but returns^ and ad- 
dresses Swinton. 

Len. O, were my western horsemen but 
come up, 
I would take part with you ! 

vSwi. Better that you remain ; 

They lack discretion ; such gray head as 

yours 
May best supply that want. 
Lennox, mine ancient friend, and hondr'd 

lord, 
Farewell, I think, forever! 

Len. Farewell, brave friend ! — and fare- 
well, noble Gordon, 
Whose sun will be eclipsed even as it rises ! — 
Tiie Regent will not aid you. 
Swi. We will so bear us, that as soon the 
bloodhound 
Shall halt, and take no part, what time his 
comrade 

*The laws of chivalry demanded this submis- 
sien to a father in chivalry. 



Ls grappling w^ith the deer, as he stand still, 
And see us overmatch'd. 
Len. Alas ! thou dost not knov/how mean 
his pride is, 
How strong his envy. 
Swi. Then we will die, and leave tl-.e 
shame with him. \^Exit Lennox. 

ViP. {to Gordon). What ails thee, 
noble youth ? What means this 
pause ? 
Thou dost not rue thy generosity? 
GoR. I have been hurried on by strong 
impulse, 
j Like to a bark that scuds before the storm, 
Till driven upon some strange and distant 

coast, 
Which never pilot dream'd of. — Have I not 

forgiven .? 
And am I not still fatherless ? 

Swi. Gordon, no; 

For while we live I am a father to thee. 
GoR. Thou, Swinton ? — no ! — that cannot, 

cannot be. 
Swi. Then change the phrase, and say, 
that while we live, 
Gordon shall be my son. If thou art 

fatherless. 
Am I not childless too? Bethink thee, 

Gordon, 
Our death-feud was not like the house!) '.id 

fire. 
Which the poor peasant hides among its 

embers. 
To smoulder on, and wait a time for wak- 
ing. 
Ours was the conflagration of the forest. 
Which, in its fury, spares nor sprout nor 

stem, 
Hoar oak, nor sapling — not to be extin 

guish'd. 
Till Heaven, in mercy, sends down all her 

waters ; 
But, once subdued, its flame is quench'd for- 
ever ; 
And spring shall hide the tract of devasta- 
tion. 
With foliage and with flowers. — Givft me tlir 
hand 
GoR. My hand and heart! — And freely 

now ! — to fight ! 
Vip. How will you act? [Tf? Swinton] 
The Gordon's band and thine 
Are in the rearward left, I think, in 

scorn — 
111 post for them who wish to charge ta% 
foremost \ 



HALTDON HTLL. 



475 



SwT. We'll turn the scorn to vantage, and 
descend 
Sidelong the hill — some winding path there 

mast be — 
O, for a well-skill'd guide ! 

[Hob Hattely starts up from a 
thicket. 
Hob. So here he stands. — An ancient 
friend, Su- Alan. 
Hob Hattely, or, if you like it better, 
Hob of the Heron Plume, here stands your 
guide. 
Swi. An ancient friend.^ — a most noto- 
rious knave, 
Whose throat I've destin'd to the dodder'd 

oak 
Before my castle, these ten months and 

more. 
Was it not you who drove from Simprim- 

mains. 
And Swinton-quarter, sixty head of cattle t 
Hob. What then, if now I lead your sixty 
lances 
Upon the English flank, where they'll find 

spoil 
Is worth six hundred beeves .'' 

Swi. Why, thou canst do it, knave. I 
would not trust thee 
With one poor bullock ; yet would risk my 

life. 
And all my followers, on thine honest 
guidance. 
Hob. There is a dingle, and a most dis- 
creet one 
(J've trod each step by star-light), that 

sweeps round 
The rearward of this liill, and opens 

secretly 
Upon the archers' flank. — Will not that 

serve 
Your present turn, Sir Alan } 

Swi. Bravely, bravely ! 

G»R. Mount, sirs, and cry my slogan 
Let all who love the Gordon follow me ! 
Swi. Ay, let all follow — but in silence 
follow ; 
Scare not the hare that's couchant on her 

form^ 
The cushat from her nest — brush not, if 

possible, 
The dew-drop from the spray — 
Let no one whisper, until I cry, " Havoc ! " 
Then shout as loiid's ye will.—" On, on,brave 

Hob; 
On, thou false thief, but yet most faithful 
Scotsman I \Exeunt. 



ACT n.— Scene I. 

A riszjtg Ground immedtately in front of 
the Position of the English Main Body. 
Percy, Chandos, Ribaumont, and 
other English and Norman Nobles, are 
grouped on the Stage. 

Per. The Scots still keep the hill— the 

sun grows high ; 
Would that the charge would sound. 
Ch.a.. Thou scent'st the slaughter, 

Percy. — Who comes here , 

Enter the Abbot of Walthamstow. 

Now, b/ my life, the holy priest of Wal' 

thamstow. 
Like to a lamb among a herd of wolves ! 
See, he's about to bleat. 

Ab. The King, methinks, delays the onset 

long 
Cha. Your general, Father, like your rat- 
catcher, 
Pauses to bait his traps, and set his snares. 
Ab. The metaphor is decent. 
Cha. Reverend sir, 

I will uphold it just. Our good King 

Edward 
Will presently come to this battle-field, 
And speak to you of the last tilting match, 
Or of some feat he did a twenty years since; 
But not a word of the day's work before 

him. 
Even as the artist, sir, whose name offends 

bits probing o'er his can, until the trap fall, 

Announcing that the vermin are secured. 

And then "tis up, and on them. 

Per. Chandos, you give your tongue too 

bold a license. 
Cha. Percy, I am a necessary evil. 

King Edward would not want me, if he 
could. 

And could not, if he would. I know my 
value. 

My heavy hand excuses my light tongue. 

So men wear weighty swords in their de- 
fence. 

Although they may offend the tender shin, 

When the steel-boot is doff' d. 

Ab. My Lord of Chandos, 

This is but idle speech on brink of battle, 

When Christian men sliould think upon their 
sins; 

For as the tree falls, so the trunk must lie, 

Be it for good or evil. Lord, bethink tha^, 



47^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou hast witheld from our most reverend 

house 
The tithes of Everingham and Settleton ; 
Wilt thou make satisfaction to the Church, 
Before her thunders strike thee ? I do 

warn thee 
1b most paternal sort. 

Cha. 1 thank you, Father, filially, 
Though but a truant son of Holy Church, 
1 would not choose to undergo her censures, 
When Scottish blades are waving at my 

throat, 
ril make fair composition. 

Ab. No composition ; I'll have all, or 

none. 
Cha. None, then — 'tis soonest spoke, 
I'll take my chance. 
And trust my sinful soul to Heaven's 

mercy, 
Rather than risk my worldly goods with 

thee — ■ 
My hour may not be come. 
Ab. Impious — impenitent — 
Per. Hush !— the Kmg— the King I 

Enter King Edward, attended by 
Baliol and others 

King [apart to Cha.) Hark hither, 
Chandos ! — Have the Yorkshire 
archers 
Yet join'd the vanguard ? 

Cha. They are marching thither. 

K. Ed. Bid them make haste, for 
shame — send a quick rider 
The loitering knaves ! were it to steal my 

venison, 
Their steps were IJght enough. — How now, 

SIi Abbot? 
Say, is your reverence come to study 

with us 
The princely art of war ? 

Ab I've had a lecture from my Lord of 
Chandos, 
In which he term'd your Grace a rat- 
catcher. 
K. Ed Chandos, how's this ? 
Cha. 0, I will prove it, Sir! — These 
.:kipping Scots 
Have changed a dozen times 'twixt Bruce 

and Baliol, 
Quitting each House when it began to 

totter ; 
They're fierce and cunning, treacherous, 

too, as rats, 
And we, as such, will smoke them in their 
factne-sses. 



K. Ed. These rats have seen your back, 

my Lord of Chandos, 
And noble Percy's too. 

Per. Ay; but the mass which now lies 

weltering 
On yon hill-side, like a Leviathan 
That's stranded on the shallows, then had 

soul in t. 
Order and discipline, and power ot action, 
Now 'tis a heedless corpse, which only 

shows, 
By wild convulsions, that some life re- 

niains in't. 
K. Ed. True, they had once a head ; 

and 'twas a wise. 
Although a rebel head. 

Ab. {bo-wing to the King). Would he 

were here ! we should find one to 

match him. 
K. Ed. There's something in tliat wish 

which wakes an echo 
Within my bosom. Yet it is as well. 
Or better, tliat The Bruce is in his grave. 
We have enough of pqwerful foes on 

earth, — 
No need to summon them from other 

worlds. 
Per, Your Grace ne'er met The Bruce? 
K. Ed. Never himself; but in my 

earliest field 
I did encounter with his famous captains, 
Douglas and Randolph. Faith 1 they 

press'd me hard. 
Ab. My Liege, if I might urge you with 

a question. 
Will the Scots fight to-day ? 

K. Ed. {sluirpiy). Go look your bre- 
viary. 
Cha. (apart). The Abbot has it- 
Edward will not answer 
On tiiat nice point. We must observe his 

humor. — [^Addresses the King ] 
Your first campaign, my Liege' — That 

was in Weardale, 
When Douglas gave our camp yrn mid- 
night ruffle, 
And turn'd men's beds to biers. 

K. Ed. Ay. by Saint Edward !— I 

escaped right nearly. 
I was a soldier then for holidays, 
And slept not in mine armor ; my jafe rest 
Was startled by the cry of " Douglas ! 

Douglas ! " 
And by my couch, a grisly chamberlain, 
Stood Alan Swinton, with his bloody 

mace. 



HA LIDO N HILL. 



477 



It was a churcUman saved me — my stout 

chaplain, 
Heaven quit liis spirit ! caught a weapon up, 
And grappled with the giant.— How now, 

Louis ! 
Enter an Ojficer, who whispers the King. 
K. Ed. Say to him,— thus— and thus— 

{Whispers. ] 
Ab. That Swinton's dead. A monk of j 
ours reported. 
Bound homeward from St. Ninian's pil- 
grimage, I 
The Lord of Gordon slew him. ] 
Per. Father, and if your house stood 
on our borders. 
You might have cause to know that Swin- 

ton lives. 
And is on horseback yet. 

Cha. He slew the Gordon, 

That's all the difference — a very trifle. 
Ab. Trifling to those who wage a war 
more noble 
Than with the arm of flesh. 

Cha. {apart). The Abbot's vex'd, I'll 
rub the sore for him. — 
{Aloud.) I have seen priests that used 

that arm of flesh, 
And used it sturdily. — Most reverend 

Father, 
What say you to the chaplain's deed of arms 
In the King's tent at Weardale? 

Ab. It was most sinful, being against 
the canon 
Prohibiting all churchmen to bear wea- 
pons ; 
And as he fell in that unseemly guise, 
Perchance his soul may rue it. 

K. Ed. {overhearing the last words). 
Who may rue ? 
And what is to be rued ? 

Ch.a.. {apart). I'll match his Reverence 
for the tithes of Everingham. 
. — The Abbot says, my Liege, the deed was 

sinful. 
By which your chaplain, wielding secular 

weapons. 
Secured your Grace's life and liberty, 
And that he suffers for 't in purgatory. 
K. Eu. {to the Abbot). Say'st thou my 

chaplain is in purgatory .? 
Ab. It is the canon speaks it, good my 

Liege. 
K. Ed. In purgatory ! thou shalt pi-ay 
him out on't. 
Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him. 



Ab. My Lord, perchance his soui is 
past the aid 
Of all the Church may do— there is a 

place 
From wliich there's no redemption. 

K. Ed. And if I thought my faithful 
chaplain there, 
; Thou shouldst there join him, priest !— 
j Go, watch, fast, pray. 

{ And let me have such prayers as will 
I storm Heaven — 

j None of your maim'd and mutter'd hunt- 
I ing masses. 

Ab. {apart to Cha.). For God's sake 

take him off. 
Cha. Wilt thou comprumd, then, 
The tithes of Everingham 1 

K. Ed. I tell thee, if thou bear'st the 
keys of Heaven, 
Abbot, thou shalt not turn a bolt with 

them 
'Gainst anv well-deserving English subject. 
Ab. {to'CuA.). We v/ill compound and 
grant thee, too, a share 
r the next indulgence. Thou dost need it 

much, 
And greatly 'twill avail thee. 

Cha Enough — we're friends, and whei* 
occasion serves, 

I will strike in. 

{Looks as if toivards the Scottish Army. 
K. En. Answer, proud Abbot ; is my 
chaplain's soul, 
If thou knovvest aught on't, in the evii 
place ? 
Cha. My Liege, the Yorkshire men 
have gain'd the meadow. 
1 see the pennon green of merry Sherwood. 
K. Ed. Then give the signal instant ! 
We have lost 
But too much time already. 

Ab. My Liege, your holy chaplain's 

blessed soul — ■ 
K. Ed. To hell with it and thee ! Is 
this a time 
To speak of monks and chaplains? 

[Florish ofTrumpets answered by 
a distant soiind of Bugles. 
See, Chandos, Percy — Ha, Saint George r 

Saint Edward ! 
See it descending now, the fatal hail- 
shower, 
The storm of England's wrath — sure, swift, 

resistless. 
Which no mail-coaC can brook. — Brave 
English hearts ! 



478 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How close they shoot toge'^^her ! — as one 

eye 
Had aini'd five thousand shafts — as if one 

hand 
Had loosed five thousand bow-strings ! 

Per. The thick volley 

Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us. 
K. Ed. It falls on those shall see the 
sun no more. 
The winged, the resistless plague is with 

them. 
How their vex'd host is reeling to and 

fro, 
Like the chafed whale with fifty lances 

in him, 
They do not se^, and cannot shun the 

wound. 
The storm is viewless as death's sable 

wing, 
Unerring as his scythe. 

Per. Horses and riders are going down 
together. 
*Tis almost pity to see nobles fall. 
And by a peasant's arrow. 

Bal. 1 could weep them. 

Although they are my rebels. 

Cha. {aside to Per.) His conquerors, 
he means who cast him out 
from his usurped kingdom. — {Aloud.) 

'Tis the worst of it, 
That knights can claim small honor in 

the field 
Which archers win, unaided by our lances. 
K. Ed. The battle is not ended. 

yLooks towards the field. 
Kot ended ?— scarce begun ! What horse 

are these. 
Rush from the thicket underneath the hill ? 
Per. They're Hainaulters, the followers 

of Queen Isabel. 
K. Ed. {hastily.) Hainaulters ! — thou 
art blind— wear Hainaulters 
Saint Andrew's silver cross .-' — or would 

they charge 
Full on our archers, and make havoc of 

them ? — 
Bruce is alive again — ho, rescue ! rescue ! — 
Who was't survey'd the ground i* 
RiEA. Most loj'^al Liege — 
K. Ed. a rose hath fallen from thy 
chaplet,* Ribaumont. 

* The well-known expression by which Robert 
Bruce censured the negligence of Randolph, 
for permitting an English body of cavalry to 
pass his flank on the day preceding the battle 
«f Bannockburn. 



RiBA. I'll win it back, or lay my head 
beside it. \^Exit. 

K. Ed. Saint George ! Saint Edward ! 
Gentlemen, to horse, 

And to the rescue !— Percy, lead the bill- 
men ; 

Chandos, do thou bring up the men-at- 
arms. — 

If yonder numerous host should now bear 
down 

Bold as their vanguard {to the Abbot), 
thou mayst pray for us. 

We may need good men's prayers. — To 
the rescue, 

Lords, to the rescue ! ha, Saint George I 
Saint Edward ! \_Exettnt. 

Scene II. 

A part of the Field of Battle betwixt the 
two Main Armies. Tumults behind the 
sce7ies : alarums, and cries of'-'' Gordon I 
a Gordon ! " " Swinton ! " &c. 

Enter, as victorious over the English van- 
guard, VlPONT, Reynald, and others. 
ViP. 'Tis sweet to hear these war-cries 
sound together,— 
Gordon and Swinton. 

Rev. 'Tis passing pleasant, yet 'tis 
strange withal. 
Faith, when at first I heard the Gordon's 

slogan 
Sounded so near me, I had nigh struck 

down 
The knave who cried it. 

Enter Swinton and Gordon. 
Swi. Pi-tch down my pennon in yon 

holly bush. 
GoR. Mine in the thorn beside it ; let 
them wave. 
As fought this morn their masters, side by 
side. 
Swi. Let the men rally, and restore 
their ranks 
Here in this vantage-ground — disorder'd 

chase 
Leads to disorder'd flight ; we have done 

our part, 
And if we're succor'd now, Plantagenet 
Must turn his bridle southward. — 
Reynald, spur to the Regent with the 

basnet 
Of stout De Grey, the leader of their van- 
guard ; 
Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew 
him. 



HALIDON HILL. 



479 



And by that token bid him send us suc- 
cor. 
GoR. And tell him that when Selby's 

headlong cliarge 
Had well-nigh borne me down, Sir Alan 

smote liim. 
I cannot send his helmet, never nutshell 
Went to so many shivers. — Harkye, 

grooms 1 [ To those behind the scenes. 
Why do you let my noble steed stand 

stiffening 
After so hot a course ? 

Swi, Ay, breathe your horses, they'll 

have work anon, 
For Edward's men-at-arn-vs will soon be 

on us, 
The flower -of England, Gascony, and 

Flanders ; 
But with swift succor we will bide them 

bravely. — 
De Vipont, thou look'st sad. 
ViP. It is because I hold a Templar's 

sword 
Wet to the crossed hilt with Christian 

blood. 
Swi. The blood of English archers — 

what can gild 
A Scottish blade more bravely ? 

ViP. Even therefore grieve I for those 

gallant yeomen, 
England's peculiar and appropriate sons. 
Known in no other land. Each boasts his 

hearth 
And field as free as the best lord his 

barony, 
Owing subjection to no human vassalage. 
Save to their King and law. Hence are 

they resolute. 
Leading the van on every day of battle, 
As men who know the blessings they 

defend. 
Hence are they frank and generous in 

peace, 
As men who have their portion in its 

plenty. 
No other kingdom shows such worth and 

happiness 
Veil'd in such low estate — therefore I 

mourn them. 
Swi. I'll keep my sorrow for our native 

Scots, 
Who, spite of hardship, poverty, oppres- 
sion, 
Still follow to the field their Chieftain's 

banner, 
And die in the defence on't. 



GoR. And if I live and see my halls 
again, 
They shall have portion in the good they 

fight for. 
Each hardy follower shall have his field, 
His household hearth and sod-built home 

as free 
As ever Southron had. They shall be 

happy ! — 
And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it ! — 
I have isetray'd myself. 

Swi. Do not believe it.— . 

Vipont, do thou look out from yonder 

height. 
And see what motion in the Scottish host, 
And in King Edward's. — [Exit Vipont. 

Now will I counsel thee ; 
The Templar's ear is for no tale of love. 
Being wedded to his Order. But I tell 

tliee. 
The brave young knight that hath no 
I lady-love 

I Is like a lamp unlighted ; his brave deeds, 
I And its ricli painting, do seem then most 
j glorious, 

When the pure ray gleams through them. — 
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name 1 
GoR. Must I then speak of her to you, 
Sir Alan? 
The thought of thee, and of thy matchless 

strength. 
Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her 

dreams. 
The name of Swinton hath been spell suf- 
ficient 
To chase the rich blood from her lovely 

cheek. 
And wouldst thou know hers .^ 

Swi. I would, nay must. 

Thy father in the paths of chivalry, 

Should know the load-star thou dost rule 

thy course by. 

GoR. Nay, then, her name is — hark— 

[ Whis/'crs. 

Swi. I know it well, that ancient 

northern house. 
GoR. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace 
and honor 
In my Elizabeth. And if music touch 

thee 

Swi. It did, before disasters had un- 
tuned me. 
GoR. O, her notes 
Shall hush each sad remembrance to ob- 
livion. 
Or melt them to such gentleness of foeling^ 



45 o 



SCO TT 'S FOE TICAL WORKS. 



Tliat grief stiall have its sweetness. Who, 

but she,- 
Knows the wild harpingsof ournative land ? 
Whether they hill the shepherd on his hill, 
Or wake the knight to battle ; rouse to 

merriment. 
Or soothe to sadness ; she can touch each 

mood. 
Princos and statesmen, chiefs renown'd in 

arms, 
And gray-hair'd bards, contend which 

shall'the first 
And choicest homage render to the en- 
chantress. 
Svvi. You speak her talent bravely. 
GOR. Though you smile, 

1 do not speak it half Hsr gift creative, 
New measures adds to every air she wakes ; 
Varying and gracing it with liquid sweet- 
ness, 
Like the wild modulation of the lark ; 
Now leaving, now returning to the strain ! 
To listen to her, is to seem to wander 
In some enchanted labyrinth of romance, 
Whence nothing but the lovely fairy's will, 
Who wove the spell, can extricate the 

wanderer. 
Methinks 1 hear hernow ! — 

Swi Bless'd privilege 

Of youth! There's scarce three minutes 

to decide 
'Twixt death and life, 'twixt triumph and 

defeat. 
Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's bower, 
List'ning her harping ! \Enter Vipont. 

Where are thine, De Vipont .-' 
ViP. On death — on judgment — on 

eternity 1 
For time is over with us. 

Swi. There moves not, then, one pennon 

to our aid. 
Of all that flutter yonder ! 

ViP. From the mam English host come 

rushing forward 
Pennons enow — ay, and their Royal 

Standard. 
But ours stand rooted, as for crows to 

roost on. 
Swi, {to himself:) Pll rescue him at 

least. — Young Lord of Gordon, 
Spur to the Regent — show the instant 

need 

GoR, I penetrate thy purpose ; but I go 

not. 
Swi. Not at my bidding "i I thy sire 

in chivalry? 



Thy lender in the battle .''— I command 

thee I 
GoR. No, thou wilt not command me 

seek my safety — 
For such IS thy kind meaning — at the ex- 
pense 
Of the last hope which Heaven reserves f(j) 

Scotland. 
While I abide no follower of mine 
Will turn his rein for life; but were I gone, 
What power can stay them I and, our band 

dispersed, 
What sword shall for an instant stem yon 

host, 
And save the latest chance for victory ? 
ViP. Tiie noble youth speaks truth ; an/ 

were he gone, 
There will not twenty spears be left with us. 
GoR. No, bravely as we have begun the 

field, 
So let us fight it out. The Regent's eyes, 
More certain than a thousand messages, 
Shall see us stand, the barrier of his host 
Against yon blustering storm. If nut for 

honor, 
If not for warlike rule, tor shame at least 
He must bear down to aid us. 

Swi. Must it be so 1 

And am I forced to yield the sad consent, 
Devoting thy young life ? O, Gordon, 

Gordon ! 
I do it as the patriarch doom'd his issue ; 
1 at my country's, he at Heaven's com- 
mand ; 
But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice, 
Rather than such a victim !—(7'/'2/w/^/^.; 

Hark, they come ! 
That music sounds not like thy lady's lute. 
GoR. Yet shall my lady's name mix with 

it gayly.— 
Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and 

cry, '• Gordon I 
Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth ! " 

\Exeutit. Loud Alarums. 

SCENE HL 

Another fart of the Field of Battle, adja- 
cent to the former Scent. 

Alaru77is. Filter Swinton, followed 
by Hob H.\ttely. 

Swi. Stand to it yet ! The man who 
flies to-day. 
May bastards warm them at his household 
hearth 1 



HA LID ON HILL. 



481 



Hob. That ne'er shall be my curse. 
My Magdalen 
Is trusty as my broadsword. 

Swi. Ha, thou knave, 

Art thou dismounted too ? 

IIOB. I know, Sir Alan, 

You want no homeward guide; so threw 

my reins 
Ujjon my palfrey's neck, and let him loose. 
Within an hour he stands before my gate ; 
And Magdalen will need no other token 
To bid the Melrose IMonks say masses for 
me. 
Swi. Thou art resolved to cheat the 

halter, then ? 
Hob. It is my purpose, 

Having lived a thief, to die a brave man's 

death ; 
Anvl never had I » more glorious chance 
for't. 
Swi. Here lies the way to it, knave. — 
Make in, make in, 
Aiul aid young Gordon J 

\^Exeiittt. Loud and long Alarums. 

After -which the hack Scene rises, 

and discovers Swinton oji the 

ground^ Gordon supporting 

him : both much ivoiindcd. 

Swi. All are cut down — the reapers 

have pass'd o'er us. 

And hie to distant harvest. — My toil's over ; 

There lies my sickle. {Dropping his 

swo7'd. ) Hand of mine again 
Shall never, never wield it ! 

GoR. O valiant leader, is thy light ex- 
tinguish'd ! 
That only beacon-flame which promised 

safety 
In this day's deadly wrack ! 

Swi. My lamp hath long been dim I 
But thine, young Gordon, 
Just kindled, to be quench'd so suddenly, 
Ere Scotland saw its splendor ! — ■ 

GoR, Five thousand horse hung idly on 
yon hill, 
Saw us c'erpowered, and no one stirr'd to 
aid us ! 
Swi. It was the Regent's envy. — Out ! 
— alas ! 
Why blame I him ! — It was our civil dis- 
cord. 
Out" selfish vanity, out, jealous hatred. 
Which framed this day of dole for our 

poo J country. — 
Had thy brave father held yon leading 
staff, 

3^ 



As well his rank and valor might have 

claim' d it, 
Wc had not (all'n unaided. — How^ O how 
Is he to answer it, whose deed pre. 

vented — — 
GoR. Alas' alas! the author of the 

death-feud, 
He has his reckoning too ! for had your sons 
And num'rous vassals lived, we had lack'd 

no aid. 
Swi. May God assoil the dead, and^ 

him who follows ! 
We've drank the poison'd beverage which 

we brew'd ! 
Have sown the wind, and reap'd the ten- 
fold whirlwind ! — 
But thou, brave youth, whose nobleness of 

heart 
Pour'd oil upon the wounds our hate in- 
flicted ; 
Thou, who hast done no wrong, need'st 

no forgiveness, — 
Why should'st thou share our punishment ' 
GoR. All need forgiveness — {distent 

alarttins.) Hark, in yonder shout, 

Did the main battles counter ! 

Swi. Look on the field, brave Gordon, 

if thou canst. 
And tell me how the day goes. — But I 

guess, 
Too surely do I guess — - 
GoR. All's "lost! all's lost!— Of the 

main Scottish host. 
Some wildly fly, and some rush wildly 

forward ; 
And some there are who seem to turn 

their spears 
Against their countrymen. 

Swi. Rashness, and cowardice, and 

secret treason. 
Combine to ruin us ; and our hot valor, 
Devoid of discipline, is madmen's strengtli. 
More fatal unto friends than enernier, ! 
I'm glad that these dim eyes shall see no 

more on't. — 
Let thy hands close them, Gordon — I will 

dream 
My fair-hair'd William renders me that 

office I [ Dies. 

GoR. And, Swinton, I will think I do 

that duty 
To my dead father. 

Enter De Vipont. 
ViP. Fly, fly, brave youth !— A hand 
ful of thy followers, 



482 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The scatter'd gleaning of this desperate 

day, 

Still hover yonder to essay thy rescue — 

O linger not' — I'll be your guide to them. 
GOR. Look tliere, and bid me fly I — The 
oak has fall'n ; 

And the young ivy bush, which learn'd to 
climb 

By its support, must needs partake its fall. 
ViP. Swinton t Alas ! the best, the 
bravest, strongest, 

And sagest of our Scottish chivalry ' 

Forgive one moment, if to save the living, 

My tongue should wrong the dead. — Gordon, 
bethink thee, 

Thou dost but stay to perish with the 
corpse 

Of him who slew thy father. 

GoR. Ay, but he was my sire in chivalry ! 

He taught my youtli to soar above the 
promptmgs 

Of mean and selfish vengeance ; gave my 
youth 

A name that shall not die even on this death- 
spot, 

Records shall tell this field had not been 
lost. 

Had all men fought like Swinton and like 
Gordon. [ Triimpcts. 

Save thee, De Vipont. — Hark I the South- 
ron trumpets. 
ViP. Nay, without thee I stir not. 

Etiter Edward, Chandos, Percy, 

Baliol, 6^^. 
GoR. Ay, they come on — The Tyrant and 
the Traitor, 
Workman and tool, Plantagenet and 

Baliol.— 
O for a moment's strength in this poor arm, 
To do one glorious deed ! 

[i% rtishes on the English, bitt is 
made prisoner ivith Vipont. 
K. Ed. Disarm them — harm them not ; 
though it was they 
Made havoc on the archers of our van- 
guard, 
They and that bulky champion. Where is 
he.? 
Cha. Here lies the giant ! Say his name, 

young Knight? 
GoR. Let it suffice, he was a man this 

morning. 
Cha. I question'd thee in sport. I do 
not need 
Thy mformation, youth. Who that has 
fought 



Through all these Scottish wars, but knows 

his crest ? 
The sable boar chain'd to the leafy oak. 
And that huge mace still seen where war 
was wildest ! 
K. Ed. 'Tis Alan Swinton ! 
Grim Chaipberlain, wlio in my tent at 

Weardale, 
Stood by my startled couch with torch and 

mace, 
When tlie Black Douglas' war-cry waked my 
camp. 
GoR. [sinking down). If thus thou 
know'st him, 
Thou wilt respect his corpse. 

K. Ed. As belted Knight and crowned 

King, I will. 
GoR. And let mine 
Sleep at his side, in tukeo that our death 
Ended the feud of Swinton and of Gordon. 
K. Ed. It is the Gordon ! — Is there aught 
beside 
Edward can do to honor bravery, 
Even in an enemy 1 

GoR. Nothing but this : 
Let not base Baliol, with his touch or look. 
Profane my corpse or Swinton's. I've some 

breath still. 
Enough to say — Scotland — Elizabetli ! 

{Dies. 
Cha. Baliol, I would not brook such 
dying looks. 
To buy the crown you aim at. 

K. Ed, {to Vir.) Vipont, thy crossed 
shield shows ill in warfare 
Against a Christian king. 

ViP. That Christian king is warring upon 
Scotland. 
I was a Scotsman ere I was a Templar, 
Sworn to my country ere 1 knew my Order. 
K. Ed. 1 will but know thee as a Chris- 
tian champion, 
And set thee free unransom'd. 

Enter Abeot ok Walthamstow. 
Ab. Heaven : ran"; your Majesty 
Many such glorii. us days as this has been ! 
K. Ed. It is a day of much and high ad- 
vantage ; 
Glorious it might have be^n, had all cur foes 
Fought like these two brave champions. — 

Strike the drums, 
Sound trumpets, and pursue the fugitives, 
Till the Tweed's eddies whem them. 

Berwick's render'd — 
These wars, I trust, will soon find lasting 
close. 



MACDUFF'S CROSS. 



INTRODUCTION. 

These few scenes had the honor to be included in a Miscellany, published in the year 1823, 
by Mrs. Joanna Baillie, and are here reprinted, to unite them with tlie trifles of the same kind 
which owe their birth to the author. The singular history of the Cross and Law of Clan Mac- 
Puff is given, at length enough to satisfy the keenest antiquary, in The Mmstrelsy of the Scot- 
iuh Border. It is here only necessary to state, that the Cross was a place of refuge to any person 
related to MacDuff, within the ninth degree, who, having committed homicide in sudden quarrel, 
should reach this place, prove his descent from the Thane of Fife, and pay a certain penalty. 

The shaft of the Cross was destroyed at the Reformation. The huge block of stone which 
served for its pedestal is still in existence near tlie town of Newburgh, on a kind of pass which 
commands the county of Fife to the southward, and to the north the windings of the magnificent 
Tay and fertile country of Angusshire. The Cross bore an inscription, which, is transmitted to 
us in an unintelligible form by Sir Robert Sibbald. 
Abbotsford, Jattuary 1830. 



MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE, 

AUTHORESS OF 

"THE PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS.** 



PRELUDE. 



Nay, smile not, Lady, when I speak of 
witchcraft, 

And say that still there lurks amongst our 
glens 

Some touch of strange enchantment. — 
Mark that fragment, 

I mean that rough-hewn block of massive 
stone, 

Placed on the summit of this mountain 
pass, 

Commanding prospect wide o'er field and 
fell, 

And peopled village and extended moor- 
land, 

And the wide ocean and majestic Taj'^, 

To the far distant Grampians. — Do not 
deem it 

A loosen'd portion of the neighboring 
rock, 

Detach'd by storm and thunder, — 'twas the 
pedestal 

On which in ancient times, a Cross was 
■ rear'd. 

Carved o'er with words which foiPd philo- 
logists ; 

And the events it did comiuemorate 



Were dark, remote, and undistinguishable, 

As were the mystic characters it bore. 

But, mark, — a wizard, born on Avon's 

bank, 
Tuned but his harp to this wild northern 

theme, 
And, lo ! the scene is hallow'd. None shall 

pass, 
Now, or in after days, beside that stone, 
But he shall have strange visions ; thoughts 

and words, 
That shake, or rouse, or thrill the human 

heart, 
Shall rush upon his memory when he hears 
The spirit-stirring name of this rude 

symbol ; — 
Oblivious ages, at that simple spell. 
Shall render back their terrors with theii 

woes, 
Alas ! and with their crimes — and the proud 

phantoms 
Shall move with step familiar to his eye. 
And accents which, once heard, the ear for- 
gets not. 
Though ne'er again to list them. 3iddons, 

thine, 



484 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou matchless Siddons I thrill upon our 

ear; 
And on our eye thy lofty Brother's form 
Rises as Scotland's monarch. — But, to 

thee, 
Joanna, 'A^hy to thee speak of such visions ? 
Thine own wild wand can raise them. 



Yet since thou wilt an idle tale of 



mme, 



Take one which scarcely is of worth 

enough 
To give or to withhold. — Our time 

creeps en, 
Fancy grows colder as the silvery hair 
Tells the advancing winter of our life. 
But if it be of worth enough to please, 
That work it owes to her who set the task ; 
If otherwise, the fault rests with the author. 



DRAMA TIS PERSONS, 
Ma''u''rTe''berkeley, ! ^''^'''^' ^^''^''^• 



Scene. 

The sufnmit of a Rocky Pass near to New- 
burgh, abotd two miles from tlie ancient 
Abdey of Lhidorcs^ in Fife. In the 
centra is Mac Duff' s Cross, an antique 
Monument : and at a small distance, 
vn one side, a Chapel xvith a lamp 
bur fling. 

Enter, as having ascended the Pass, 
NiNlAN and Waldhave, Monks of 
Lindores, Ninian crosses himself, and 
seems to recite his devotions., Wald- 
have stands gazing on the prospect, as if 
in deep contemplation. 

NiN. Here stands the Cross, good brother, 
consecrated 
By the bold Thane unto his patron saint 
Magridius, once a brotlier of our house. 
Canst thou not spare an ave or a creed .'' 
Or hath the steep ascent exhausted you ? 
You trode it stoutly, though 'twas rough 
and toilsome. 
Wal. I have trode a rougher, 
NiN. _ On the Highland hills— 

Scarcely within our sea-girt province here, 
Unless upon the Lomonds or Bennarty. 
Wal. I spoke not of the literal path, good 
father, 
But of the road of life which I have 

travell'd. 
Ere I assumed this habit ; it was bounded. 
Hedged in, and limited by earthly pros- 
pects, 



As ours beneath was closed by dell and 

thicket. 
Here we see wide and far, and the broad 

sky. 
With wide horizon^ opens full around, 
While earthly objects dwindle. Brother 

Ninian, 
Fain would I hope that mental elevation 
Could raise me equally o^er worldly 

thoughts, 
And place me nearer heaven, 

NiN. 'Tis good morality. — But yet forget 
not. 
That though we look on heaven from this 

high eminence, 
Yet doth the Prince of all the airy space, 
Arch-foe of man, possess the realms be- 
tween. 
Wal. Most true, good brother ; and men 
may be farther 
From the bright heaven they aim at, even 

because 
They deem themselves secure on't, 

NiN. {after a pause). You do gaze- 
Strangers are wont to do so — on the pros- 
pect. 
Yon is the Tay roll'd down from Highland 

hills. 
That rests his waves, after so rude a race, 
In the fair plains of Cowrie — further west- 
ward, 
Proud Stirling rises — yonder to the east, . 
Dundee, the gift of God, and fair Montrose, 
And still more northward lie the ancient 
towers—— 



MACDUFF'S CROSS. 



485 



Wal. Of Edzell. 

NiN. How ? know you the 

towers of Edzell ? 
Wal. I've heard of them. 

NiN. Then have you 

heard a tale, 
Which when he tells, the peasant shakes his 

head, 
And shuns the mouldering and deserted 

walls. 
Wal. Why, and by whom deserted 1 
NiN. Long the tale — 

Enough to say that the last Lord of 

Edzell, 
Bold Louis Lindesay, had a wife, and 

found 

Wal. Enough is said, indeed — since a 

weak woman, 
Ay, and a tempting fiend, lost Paradise, 
When man was innocent. 

NiN. They fell at strife. 

Men say, on slight occasion: that fierce 

Lindesay 
Did bend his sword against De Berkeley's 

breast. 
And that the lady threw herself between : 
That then De Berkeley dealt the Baron's 

death-wound. 
Enough, that from that time De Berkeley 

bore 
A spear in foreign wars. But, it is said, 
He hath return'd of late; and, therefore, 

brother, 
The Prior hath ordain'd our vigil here. 
To watch the privilege of the sanctuary. 
And rights of Clan MacDuff. 

Wal. What rights are these ? 

NiN Most true; you are but newly come 

from Rome 
And do not know our ancient usages 
Know then, when fell Macbeth beneath the 

arm 
Of the predestined knight, unborn of 

woman, 
Three boons the victor ask'd, and thrice 

did Malcolm, 
Stooping the sceptre by the Thane re- 
stored. 
Assent to his request. And hence the 

rule. 
That first when Scotland's King assumes 

the crown, 
MacDuff's descendant rings his brow 

with it: 
And hence, when Scotland's King calls 

forth his host, 



MacDuff's descendant leads the van in 
battle : 

And last, in guerdon of the crown restored^ 

Red with the blood of the usurping tyrant, 

The right was granted in succeeding time, 

That if a kinsman of the Thane of Fife 

Commit a slaughter on a sudden impulse, 

And fly for refuge to this Cross MacDuff, 

For the Thane's sake he shall find sanc- 
tuary ; 

For here must the avenger's step be staid, 

And here the panting homicide find safet)-. 
Wal. And here a brother of your order 
watches. 

To see the custom of your place observed .' 
NiN. Even so; — such is our convent's 
holy right, 

Since Saint Magridius — blessed be his 
memory ! — 

Did by a vision warn the Abbot Eadmir. 

And chief we watch, when there is bicker- 
ing 

Among the neighboring nobles, now most 
likely 

From this return of Berkeley from abroad. 

Having the Lindesay's blood upon his 
hand. 
Wal. The Lindesay, then, was loved 

among his friends ? 
NiN. Honor 'd and fear'd he was — buc 
little loved; 

For even his bounty bore a show of stern- 
ness ; 

And when his passions waked, he was a 
Sathan 

Of wrath and injury. 

Wal. How now. Sir Priest! {fiercely \ 
— Forgive me — {recollecting himself) 
— I was dreaming 

Of an old baron who did bear about him 

Some touch of your Lord Reynold. 
NiN. Lindesay's name, my brother. 

Indeed was Reynold ; — and methinks, more- 
over. 

That, as you spoke even now, he would have 
spoken. 

I brought him a petition from our convent*. 

He granted straight, but in such tone and 
manner. 

By my good saint ! I thought myself scarce 
safe 

Till Tay roU'd broad between us. I must | 
now 

Unto the chapel — meanwhile the watch \%\ 
thine ; 

And, at thy word, the hurrying fugitive, 



486 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Should such arrive, must here find sanc- 
tuary ; 
And, at thy word, the fiery-paced avenger 
Must stop his bloody course — e'en as swoln 

Jordan 
Controll'd his waves, soon as they touch'd 

the feet 
Of those who bore the ark. 

Wal. Is this my charge ? 

NlN. Even so ; and 1 am near, should 

chance require me. 
At midnight I relieve you on your watch, 
When we may taste together some refresh- 
ment : 
I have cared for it; and for a fiask of 

wine — 
There is no sin, so that we drink it not 
Until the midnight hour, when lauds have 

toll'd. 
Farewell a while, and peaceful watch be 

with you ! 

\Exit towards the Chapel. 

Wal. It is not with me, and alas ! alas ! 

I know not where to seek it. This monk's 

mind 
Is with his cloister match'd, nor lacks more 

room. 
Its petty duties, formal ritual, 
Its humble pleasures and its paltry troubles. 
Fill up his round of life; even as some 

reptiles, 
They say, are moulded to the very shape, 
And all the angles of the rocky crevice, 
In which they live and die. But for my 

self, 
Retired in passion to the narrow cell, 
Couchin.g my tired limbs in its recesses, 
So ill-adapted am I to its limits, 

That every attitude is agony. 

How now ! what brings him back ? 

\Re-enter NiNlAN. 
NiN. Look to your watch, my brother, — 

horsemen come ; 
I heard their tread when kneeling in the 

chapel 
Wal {looking to a distance). My 

thoughts have wrapt me more then 

thy devotion, 
Else had I heard the tread of distant horses 
Farther than thou couldst hear the sacring 

bell; 
But now in truth they come : — flight and 

pursuit 
Are sights I've been long strange to. 

NiN. See how they gallop down the 

opposing hill ! 



Yon gray steed bounding down the head- 
long path, 
As on the level meadow while the black. 
Urged by the rider with his naked sword. 
Stoops on his prey, as 1 have seen the falcon 
Dashing upon the heron. — Thou dost 

frown 
And clench thy hand, as if it grasp'd a 
weapon ? 
Wal. 'lis but for shame to see a man 
fly thus 
While only one pursues him. Coward, 

turn !— 
Turn thee, I say ! thou art as stout as he, 
And well mayst match thy single sword 

with his — 
Shame, that a man should rein a steed like 

thee, 
Yet fear to turn his front against a f 3e ! — 
I am ashamed to look en them. 

NiN. Yet look again ; they quit their 
horses now. 
Unfit for the rough path : the fugitive 
Keeps the advantage still. They strain 
toward us. 
Wal. I'll not believe that ever the bold 
Thane 
Rear'd up his Cross to be a sanctuary 
To the base coward who shunn'd an equal 

combat. — 
How 's this ? — that look, that mien — mine 
eyes grow dizzy ! 
NiN. He comes I — thou art a novice on 
this watch,— 
Brother, I'll take the word and speak to 

him. 
Pluck down thy cowl : know that we 

spiritual champions 
Have honor to maintain, and must not 

seem 
To quail before the laity. 

[Waluhave lets down his cowl., 
and steps back. 
Enter Maurice Brrkeley. 
NiN. Who art thou, stranger ? speak thy 

name and purpose. 
Ber. I claim the privilege of Clan Mac- 
Duff. 
My name is Maurice Berkeley, and my 

lineage 
Allies me nearly with thy Thane of Fife. 
NiN. Give us to know the cause oi 

sanctuary t 
Ber. Let him shew it, 

Against whose violence I claim the privilege 



MACDUFF'S CROSS 



487 



Enter Lindesay with his sword drawtt. 
He rushes at Berkeley ; Ninian in- 
terposes, 

NiN. Peace, in the name of Saint Ma 

gndius ! 
Peace, in our Prior's name, and m the name 
Ot that dear symbol, which did purchase 

peace 
And good-will towards man ! I do com- 
mand thee 
To sheathe thy sword, and stir no contest 

here. 
Lin. One charm I'll try first, 
To lure the craven from tlie enchanted circle 
Which he hath harbor'd in. — Hear you, 

De Berkeley, 
This is my brother's sword — the hand it 

arms 
Is weapon'd to avenge a brother's death : — 
If thou hast heart to step a furlong off. 
And change three blows, — even for so short 

a space 
As these good men may say an ave- 

marie, — 
So, Heaven be good to me 1 I will forgive 

thee 
Thy deed and all its consequences 

Ber. Were not my right hand fetter'd 

by the thought 
That slaying thee were but a double guilt 
In which to steep my soul, no bridegroom 

ever 
Step'd forth to trip a measure with his bride 
More joyfully than I, young man, would 

rush 
To meet thy challenge. 
Lin. He quails, and shuns to look upon 

my weapon, 
Yet boasts himself a Berkeley ! 

Ber. Lindesay, and if there were no 

deeper cause 
For shunning thee than terror of thy 

weapon, 
That rock-hewn Cross as soon should start 

and stir. 
Because a shepherd-boy blow horn be- 
neath it, 
As I for brag of thine. 
NiN. I charge you both, and in the 

name of Heaven, 
Breathe no defiance on this sacred spot, 
Where Christian men must bear them 

peacefully, 
On pain of -the Church thunders. Calmly 

tell 



Your cause of difference ; and, Lord Linde- 

say, thou 
Be first to speak them. 
Lin. Ask the blue welkin — ask the silver 

Tay, 
The Northern Grampians — all things know 

my wrongs ; 
Bit ask not me to tell them, while the 

villain. 
Who wrought them, stands and listens with 

a smile. 
NiN. It is said — 
Since you refer us thus to general fame — 
That Berkeley slew thy brother, the Lord 

Louis, 
In his own halls at Edzell— - 

LiN. Ay, in his halls — 
In his own halls, good father, that's the 

word. 
In his own house he slew him, while the wine 
Pass'd on the board between 1 The gallant 

Thane 
Who wreak'd Macbeth's inhospitable mur- 
der, 
Rear'd not yon Cross to sanction deeds 

like these. 
Ber. Thou sayst I came a guest ! — I 

came a victim — 
A destined victim, train'd on to the doom 
His frantic jealousy prepared for me. 
He fix'd a quarrel on me, and we fought. 
Can I forget the form that came between us, 
And perish'd by his sword ? 'Twas then I 

fought 
For vengeance,— until then I guarded life, 
But then I sought to take it, and prevail'd. 
Lin. Wretch I thou didst first dishonor 

to thy victim. 
And then didst slay him I 
Ber. There is a busy fiend tugs at my 

heart, 
But I will struggle with it ! — Youthful 

knight. 
My heart is sick of war, my hand of slaughter? 
I come not to my lordships, or my land. 
But just to seek a spot in some cold cloister, 
Which I may kneel on living, and, when 

dead, 
Which may suffice to cover me. 
Forgive me that I caused your brother's 

death; 
And I forgive the injurious terms 
With which thou taxest me. 
Lin. Take worse and blacker — Mur- 
derer ! and adulterer 1 
Art thou not moved yet? 



488 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ber. Do not press me further. 

The hunted stag, even when he seeks the 

thicket, 
Compell'd to stand at bay, grows danger- 
ous ! 
Most true thy brother perish'd by my hand, 
And if you term it murder — 1 must bear it. 
Thus far my patience can ; but if thou 

brand 
The purity of yonder martyr'd saint, 
Whom then my sword but poorly did 

avenge, 
With one" injurious word, corne to the valley. 
And I will show thee how it shall be an- 

swer'd ! 
NiN. This heat, Lord Berkeley, doth 

but ill accord 
With thy late pious patience. 

Ber. Father, forgive, and let me stand 

excused 
To Heaven and thee, if patience brooks no 

more. 
I love this lady — fondly, truly loved — 
Loved her, and was beloved, ere yet her 

father 
Conferr'd her on another. While she lived, 
Each thought of her was to my soul as hal- 

low'd 
As those I send to Heaven ; and on her 

grave. 
Her bloody, early grave, while tliis poor 

hand 
Can hold a sword, shall no one cast a scorn. 
Lin. Follow me. Thou shalt hear me 

call the adulteress 
Bv her right name. I'm glad there is yet a 

spur 
Can rouse thy sluggard mettle. 

Ber. Make then obeisance to the bless- 
ed Cross, 
For it shall be on earth thy last devotion. 

[ They are going nff. 
Wal. {riishing forward) Madmen, 

stand ! — 
Stay but one second — answer but one ques- 
tion. — 
There, Maurice Berkeley, canst thou look 

upon 
That blessed sign, and swear thou'st spoken 

truth ? 
Ber. 1 swe^r by Heaven, 



And by the memory of that murder'd inno 

cent. 
Each seeming charge against her was as 

false 
As our blessed Lady's spotless !— Hear, 

each saint ! 
Hear me, thou holy rood ! — hear me from 

heaven, 
Thou martyr'd excellence ! — hear me from 

penal fire, 
(For sure not yet thy guilt is expiated I) 

Stern ghost of her destroyer ! 

Wal. {throws back his cow!). He hears ! 

he hears ! thy spell hath raised the 

dead. 
Lin. My brother ! and alive ! — 
Wal. Alive, — but yet, my Richard, 

dead to thee. 
No tic of kindred binds me to fhe world ; 
All were renounced, wiien, with reviving 

life. 
Came the desire to seek the sacred cloister. 
Alas, in vain I for to that last retreat. 
Like to a pack of bloodhounds in full 

chase. 
My passion and my wrongs have follow'd 

mc, 
Wrath and remorse — and, to fill up the cry, 
Thou ha&t brought vengeance hither. 

Lin. I but sought 

To do the act and duty of a brother. 

Wy\L. 1 ceased to be so when I left the 

world ; 
But if he can forgive as I forgive, 
God sends me here a brother in my 

enemy, 
To pray for me and with me. If thou 

canst, 
De Berkeley, give thine hand, — 

Ber. {gives his hand). It is the will 

Of Heaven, made manifest in thy pre- 
servation, 
To inhibit farther bloodshed ; for De 

Berkeley, 
The votary Maurice lays the title down. 
Go to his halls, Lord Richard, where a 

maiden. 
Kin to his blood, and daughter in affection, 
Heirs his broad lands ; — If thou canst love 

her, Lindesay, 
Woo her, and be successful. 



AUCHINDRANE; OR, THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY. 



Cur aliquid vidi? cur noxia lumina feci! 
Cur imprudenti cognita culpa mihi est? 

Ovid i I Tristiumy Liber Secundus. 



PREFACE. 

There is not perhaps, upon record, a tale of horror which gives a more perfect picture 
than is afforded by Lhe-present, of the violence of our ancestors, or che co>nplicated crimes 
into which they were hurried, by what their wise, but ill-enforced, laws termed the 
heathenish and accursed practice of Deadly Feud. The author has tried to extract soqjb 
dramatic scenes out of it, but he is conscious no exertions of his can increase the horrci- 
of that which is in itself so iniquitous. Yet, if we look at modern events, we must not 
too hastily venture to conclude that our own times have so much the superiority over 
former days as we might at first be tempted to infer. Our great object has indeed been 
obtained, the power of the laws extends over the country universally, and if criminals at 
present sometimes escape punisiiment, this can only be by eluding justice, — not, as of 
old, by defying it. 

But the motives which influence modern ruffians to commit actions at which we pause 
with wonder and honor, arise, in a great measure, from the thirst of gain. For the hope 
of lucre, we have seen a wretch reduced to his fate, under the pretext tnat he was to share 
in amusement and conviviality; and, for gold, we have seen the meanest of wretcrtas 
aeprived of life, and their miserable remains cheated of tlie grave. 

The loftier, if equally cruel, feelings of pride, ambition, and love of vengeance, were 
the idols of our forefathers, while the caitiffs of our city bend to Mammon, the meanest of 
the spirits wlio fell. The criminals, therefore, of former times, drew their hellish inspira- 
tion from a loftier source than is known to modern villains. The fever of unsated ambi- 
tion, the frenzy of ungratified revenge, the per ferz'idutn ingenium Scolorinn, stigmati?:ed 
by our jurists and our legislators, held life but as passing breath; and such enormities as 
now sound like the acts of a madman, were then the familiar deeds of every offended 
noble. With these observations we proceed to our story. 

John Muir, or Mure, of Auchindrane, the contriver and executor of the following 
cruelties, was a gentleman cf an ancient family and a good estate in the west of Scotland; 
bold, ambitious, treacherous ^c the last degree, and utterly unconscientious, — a Richard 
the Third in private life, inaccesslfie alike to pity and remorse. His view was to raise the 
power and extend ihe grandeu.r of his ov^ti family. This gentleman had married the 
daughter of Sir Thomas Kenne-iy of Sar^anie, who was, excepting the Earl of Cassilis, 
the most important persoTi in all Carrick, the district of Ayrshire which he inhabited, and 
where the name of Kennedy held so great a sway as to give rise to the popular rhyme, — 

" Tvrh'A Vv'igton and the town of Air, 

Portpatrick and the Cruives of Cree, • 
No man need think for to bide there, 
Unless he court Saint Kennedic. " 

Now, Mure of Auchirdrane, who had promised liimself high advancement by means 
of his father-in-law, Barganie, saw, with envy and resentment, that his influence remained 
second and inferior to the House of Cassilis, chief of all the Kennedys. The Earl was 
indeed a minor, but his authorit]' was maintained, and his aflairs well managed, by liis 
uncle, Sir Tliomas Kennedy of Cuiiayne, the brotlier of Die deceased Earl, and tutor and 
guardian to the present. Tins worihy gentleman supported his nephew's dignity and the 
credit of the house so effectually, that Barganie's consequence was much thrown into the 
shade, and the ambitious Auchindrane, his son-in-law, saw no better remedy than to 
remove so formidable a rival as CuUayne by violent means. 

For this purpose, in the year of God 1597, he came with a party of followers to th*: 
town of Maybole (where Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne then resided), and lay in am- 
bush in an orchard, through which he knew his destined victim was to pass, in returning 
homewards from a house where he was engaged to sup. Sir Thomas Kennedy came 
alone, and unattended, when he was suddenly fired upon by Auchindrane and his accom- 
plices, who, having missed their aim, drew their swords, and rushed upon him to slay 
Jum. But the party thus assailed at disadvantage, had the good fortune to hide himself 



490 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



for that time in a ruinous house, where he lay concealed till the inhabitants of the place 
came to his assistance. 

Sir Tiioinas Kennedy prosecuted Mure for this assault, who, finding' himself in dane^er 
from the law, made a sort of apology and agreement with tiie L-ord of Cullayne, to whose 
daughtc: he united his eldest son, in testimony of the closest friendship in the future. 
This agreement was sincere on the part of Kennedy, who, after it had been entered into, 
showed himself Auchindrane's friend and assistant on all occasions. But it was most 
false and treacherous on that of Mure, who continued to nourish the purpose of murdering 
his new friend and ally on the first opportunity. 

Auchindrane's tlrst" attempt to effect this was by means of the young Gilbert Kennedy 
of Barganie (the old Barganie, Auchindrane's father-in-law, was dead), whom he per- 
suaded to brave the Earl of Cassilis, as one who usurped an undue influence over the 
rest of the name. Accordingly, the hot-lieaded youth, at the instigation of Auchindrane, 
rode past the gate of the Earl of Cassilis, without waiting on Jiis chief, or sending him 
any message of civility. This led to mutual defiance, being regarded by the Earl, accord- 
ing to the ideas of the time, as a personal insult. Both parties took the field with their 
followers, at the head of about 250 men on each side. Barganie, with the rashness of 
headlong courage, and Auchindrane, fired by deadly enmity to the House of Cassilis, 
made a precipitate attack on the Earl, whose men were strong"ly posted, and under cover. 
They were received by a heavy fire. Barganie was slain. Mure of Auchindrane, severely 
wounded in the thigh, became imable to sit his horse, and, the leaders thus slain or 
disabled, their party drew off without continuing the action. It must be particularly 
observed, that Sir Thomas Kennedy remained neuter in this quarrel, considering his con- 
nection with Auchindrane as too 'intimate to be broken even by his desire to assist his 
nephew. 

p"or this temperate and honorable conduct lie met a vile reward; for Auchindrane, in 
resentment of the loss of his relative Barganie, and the downfall of his ambitious hopes, 
continued his practices against the life of Sir Thomas of Cullayne, though totally inno- 
cent of contributmg to either. Chance favored his wicked purpose. 

The Knight of Cullayne, finding himself obliged to go to Edinburgh on a particular 
day, sent a message by a servant to Mure, in which he told him, in the most unsuspecting' 
confidence, the purpose of his journey, and named the road whicli he proposed to take, 
inviting Mure to meet him at Duppill, to the west of the town of Ayr, a place appointed, 
for the purpose of giving him any commissions which he might have for Edinburgh, and 
assuring his treacherous ally he would attend to any business which he might have in the 
Scottish metropolis as anxiously as to his own. Sir Thomas Kennedy's message was 
carried to the town of Maybole, where his messenger, for some trivial reason, had the 
impost committed to writing by a school-master in that town, and despatched it to its 
destination by means of a poor student, named Dalrymple, instead of carrying it to the 
house of Auchindrane in person. 

This suggested to Mure a diabolical plot. Having thus received tidings of Sir Thomas 
Kennedy's motions, he conceived the infernal purpose of having the confiding friend who 
sent the'information, \^aylaid and murdered at the place appointed to meet with him, not 
only in friendship, butfor the purpose of rendering him service. He dismissed the 
messenger DaU-ympIe, cautioning the lad to carry back the letter to Maybole, and to say 
that he had not found him, Auchindrane, in his house. Having taken this precaution, he 
proceeded to instigate the brother of the slain Gilbert of Barganie, Thomas Kennedy of 
Drumurghie by rime, and Walter Muir of Cloncaird, a kinsman of his own, to take this 
opportunity off evengingBarganie's death. The fiCry young men were easily induced to 
undertake the crime. They waylaid the unsuspecting Sir Thomas of Cullayne at the 
place appointed to meet the traitor Auchindrane, and the murderers having in company 
five or six servants, well mounted and armed, assaulted and cruelly murdered him with 
many wounds. They then plundered the dead corpse of his pui'se, containing a thousand 
merks in gold, cut on the gold buttons which he wore on his coat, and despoiled the body 
of some valuable rings and jewels. 

The revenge due for his uncle's murder was keenly pursued by the Earl of Gassili;, 
As the murderers fled from trial, they were declared outlaws; which doom, being pro- 
nounced bv three blasts of a horn, was called " being put to the horn, and declared the 
king's rebel," Mure of Auchindrane was strongly suspected of having been the instiga- 
tor of the crime. But he conceived there could be no evidence to prove his guilt if he 
could keep the boy Dalrymple out of the way, who delivered the letter which made him 
acquainted with Cullayne's journey, and the place at which he meant to halt. On the con- 
trary, he saw, that if the lad could be produced at the trial, it would afford ground of fatal 
presumption, since it could be then proved that persons so nearly connected with him as 
Kenned)' and Cloncaird had left his house, and committed the murder at the very spot 
which Cullayne had fixed for their meeting. 



A UCHINDRANE. 49 1 



To avoid this imminent danger, mure brought Dalrymple to his house, and detained him there 
lor several weeks. But the youth tiring of this confinement, Mure sent him to reside with a 
friend, Montgomery of Skelhnorly, who maintained him under a borrowed name, amid the desert 
reg. ns of the then almost savage island of Arran. Being confident in the absence of this material 
wil i»s, Auchindrane, instead of flying, like his agents Drumurghie and Cloncaird, presented 
himself boldly at the bar, demanded a fair trial, and offered his person m combat to the death 
against any of Lord Cassilis's friends who might impugn his innocence. This audacity was suc- 
cessful, and he was dismissed without trial. _ _ . 

Still, however. Mure did not consider himself safe, so long as Dalrymple was within the realm 
of Scotland ; and the danger grew more pressing when he learned that the lad had become im- 
patient of the restraint which he sustained in the island of Arran, and returned to some of his 
friends in Ayrshire. Mure no sooner heard of this than he again obtained possession of the boy's 
person, and a second time concealed him at Auchindrane, until he found an opportunity to trans- 
port him to the Low Countries, where he contrived to have him enlisted in Buccleuch's regiment, 
trusting, doubtless, that some one of the numerous chances of war might destroy the poor young 
man whose life was so dangerous to him. 

But after five or six years' uncertain safety, bought at the expense of so much violence and 
cunning, Auchindrane's fears were exasperated into frenzy, when he found this dangerous witness, 
naving escaped from all the perils of climate and battle, had left, or been discharged from, the 
Legion of Borderers, and had again accomplished his return to Ayrshire. There is ground to sus- 
pect that Dalrymple knew the nature of the hold which he possessed over Auchindrane, and was 
desirous of extorting from his fears some better provision than he had found either in Arran or 
the Netherlands. But if so, it was a fatal experiment to tamper with the fears of such a man as 
Auchindrane, who determined to rid himself effectually of this unhappy young man. 

Mure now lodged him in a house of his own, called Chapeldonan, tenanted by a vassal and 
connection of his, called James Bannatyne. This man he commissioned to meet him at ten o'clock 
at night on the sea-sands icar Girvan, and bring with him the unfortunate Dalrymple, the object 
of his fear and dread. The victim seems to have come with Bannatyne without the least suspi- 
cion, though such might have been raised by the time and place ajjpointed for the meeting. When 
Bannatyne and Dalrymple came to the appointed spot, Auchindrane met them, accompanied by 
his eldest son, James. Old Auchindrane, having taken Bannatyne aside, imparted his bloody 
purpose of ridding himself of Dalrymple forever, by murdering him on the spot. His own life 
and honor were, he said, endangered by the manner in which this inconvenient witness re- 
peatedly thrust himself back into Ayrshire, and nothing could secure his safety but taking the lad's 
life, in which action he requested James Bannatyne's assistance. Bannatyne felt some compunc- 
tion, and remonstrated against the cruel expedient, saying, it would be better to transport Dal- 
r>'mple to Ireland, and take precautions against his return. While old Auchindrane seemed dis- 
posed to listen to this proposal, his son concluded that the time was come for accomplishing the 
purpose of their meeting, and without waiting the termination of his father's conference with 
Bannatyne, he rushed suddenly on Dalrymple, beat him to the ground, and, kneeling down on 
him, with his father's assistance accomplished the crime by strangling the unhappy object of their 
fear and jealousy. Bannatyne, the witness, and partly the accomplice, of the murder, assisted 
them in their attempt to make a hole in the sand, with a spade which they had brought on pur- 
pose, in order to conceal the dead body. But as the tide was coming in, the hole which they 
made filled with water before they could get the body buried, and the ground seemed to their 
terrified consciences to refuse to be accessary to concealing their crime. Despairing of hiding 
the corpse in the manner they proposed, the murderers carried it Jut into the sea as deep as 
they dared wade, and there abandoned it to the billows, trusting that a wind, which was blowing 
off the shore, would drive these remains of their crime out to sea, where they would never more 
be heard of. But the sea, as well as the land, seemed unwilling to conceal their cruelty. After 
floating for some hours, or daj's, the dead body was, by the wind and tide, again driven on shore, 
near the very spot where the murder had been committed. 

This attracted general attention, and when the corpse was known to be that of the san.i 
William Dalrymple whom Auchindrane had so often spirited out of the country, or concealed 
when he was in it, a strong and general suspicion arose, that this young person had met with foul 
play from the bold bad man who had shown himse'f so much interested in his absence. It was 
always said or supposed, that the dead body had bled at the approach of a grandchild of Mure 
of Auchindrane, a girl who, from curiosity, had come to look at a sight which others crowded to 
see. The bleeding of the murdered corpse at the touch of the murderer, was a thing at that time 
so much believed, that it was admitted as a proof of guilt ; but I know no case, save that of 
Auchindrane, in which the phenomenon was supposed to be extended to the approach of the 
innocent kindred ; nor do I think that the fact itself, though mentioned by ancient lawyers, was 
ever admitted to proof in the proceedings against Auchindrane. 

It is -certain, however, that Auchindrane found himself so mnch the object of suspicion from 
this new crime, that he resolved to fly from justice, and suffer himself to be declared a rebel and 
outlaw rather than face a trial. But his conduct in preparing to cover h'-- ---~ht with another 



492 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORA^". 

motive than the real one. is a Curious picture of the men and manners of the times. He knew 
well that if he were to shun his trial for the murder of Dalrymple, tiie whole country would con 
sider him as a man guilty of a mean and disgraceful crime in putting to death an obscure lad, 
against whom he had'no personal quarrel. He knew, besides, that his powerful friends, win 
■would have interceded for him had his offence been merely burning a house, or killing a neigh- 
bor, would not plead for or stand by him in so pitiful a concern as the slaughter of this wretched 
wanderer. 

Accordingly, Mure sought to provide himself with some ostensible cause for avoiding law, 
with which the feelings of his kindred and friends might sympathize ; and none occurred to him 
so natural as an assault upon some friend and adherent of the Earl of Cassilis. Should he kill 
such a one, it would be indeed an unlawful action, but so far from being infamous, would be 
accounted the natural consequence of the avowed quarrel between the families. With this pur- 
pose, Mure, with the assistance of a relative, of whom he seems always to have had some ready 
to execute his worst purposes, beset Hugh Kennedy of Garriehorne, a follower of the Ean's, 
against whom they had especial ill-will, fired their pistols at him, and used other means to put 
him to death. But Garriehorne, a stout-hearted man, and well armed, defended himself in a 
very different manner from the unfortunate Knight of Cullayne, and beat off the assailants, 
wounding young Auchindrane in the right hand, so that he well-nigh lost the use of it. 

But though "Auchmdrane's purpose did not entirely succeed, he availed him=e f of it to circu- 
late a report, that if he could obtain a pardon for firing upon a feudal enemy with pistols, 
weapons declared unlawful by Act of Parliament, he would willingly stand his trial for the death 
of Dalrymple, respecting which he protested his total innocence. The King, liowever, v/as 
decidedly of opinion that the Mures, both father and son, were alike guilty of both crimes, and 
used intercession with the Earl of Abercom, as a person of power in those western counties, as 
well as in Ireland, to arrest and transmit them prisoner? to Edinburgh. In consequence of the 
Earl's exertions, old Auchindrane was made prisoner, and lodged in the tolbooth of Edinburgh. 
Young Auchindrane no sooner heard that his father was in custody, than he became as 
apprehensive of Bannatyne (the accomplice of Dalrymple's murder) telling tales, as ever his 
father had been of Dalrymple. He therefore hastened to him, and prevailed on him to pass 
over for a while to the neighboring coast of Ireland, finding hnn money and means to accom- 
plish the voyage, rn 1 engaging in the mean time to take care of his affairs in Scotland. Secure, 
as they thought, m this precaution, old Auchindrane persisted in his innocence, and his son 
found security to stand his trial. Both appeared with the same confidence at the day appointed, 
and braved the public justice, hoping to be put to a formal trial, in which Auchindrane rec ^oned 
upon an acquittal for want of the evidence which he had removed. The trial was, however, 
postponed, and Mure the elder was dismissed, under high security to return when called for. 

Ijut King James, being convinced of the guilt of the accused, ordered young Auchindrane, 
instead of being sent to trial, to be examined under the force of torture, in order to compel him 
to tell whatever he knew of the things charge'd against him. He was accordingly severely 
tortured ; but the result only served to show that such examinations are as useless as they are 
cruel. A man of weak resolution, or of a nervous habit, would probably have assented to any 
confession, however false, rather than have endured the extremity of fear and pain to which 
Mure was Subjected. But young Auchindrane, a strong and determined ruffian, endured the 
torture with the utmost firmness, and by the constant audacity with which, in spite of the intoler- 
able pain, he continued to assert his innocence, he spread so favorable an opinion of his case, 
that the detaining him in prison, instead of bringing him to open trial, was censured as severe 
and oppressive. James, however, remained firmlj^ persuaded of iiis guilt, and by an exertion of 
authority quite inconsistent with our present laws, commanded young Auchindrane to be still 
detained in close custody till further light could be thrown on these dark proceedings. He was 
detained accordingly by the King's express personal command, and against the opinion even of 
his privy councillors. This exertion of authority was much murmured against. 

In the mean while, old Auchindrane, being, as we have seen, at liberty on pledges, skulked about 
in the west, feeling how little security he had gained by Dalrymple's murder, and that he had 
placed liimseif by that crime in the power of Bannatyne.'whose evidence concerning the death of 
Dalrymple could not be less fatal than what Dalrymple might have told concerning Auchir.drane's 
accession to the conspiracy against Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne. But though the event 
had shown the error of his wicked policy, Auchindrane could think of no better mode in this case 
than that which had failed in relation to Dalrymple. When any man's life became inconsistent 
with Ins own safety, no idea seems to have occurred to this inveterate ruffian, save to murder the 
person by whom he might himself be in any wav endangered- He therefore attempted the life of 
James Bannatyne byniore agents than one. Nay, he had nearly ripened a plan by which one 
Pennvcuke was to be employed to slay Bannatyne', while, after the deed was done, it was deviseti 
that Mure of Auchnull, a connection of Bannatyne, should be instigated to slay Pennycuke ; and 
thus close up the train of murders by one, which, flowing in the ordinary course of deadly feud, 
should have nothing in it so particular as to attract much attention. 

But the justice of Hoav«i would bear this complicated train of iniquity no longer. Bannatyne, 



AUCHTNDRANE. 495 



knowing with what sort of men he had to deal, l<ept on his guard, and by his caution, discon- 
certed more than one attempt to take his hfe, while another miscarried by the remorse of Penny- 
cuke, the agent whom Mure employed. At length Bannatyne, tiring of this state of insecurity, 
and in despair of escaping such repeated plots, and also feeling remorse for the crime to which he 
had been accessary, resolved rather to submit himself to tlie severity of the law, than remain the 
object of the principal criminal's practices. He surrendered liimself to the Earl of Abercorn, and 
was transjorted to Edinburgh, where he confessed before the King and council all the particulars 
of the murder of Dalryniple, and the attempt to hide his body by committing it to the sea. 

When Bannatyne was confronted with the two Mures before tlie Privy Council, they denied 
with vehemence every part of the evidence he had given, and affirmed that the witness had been 
bibed to destroy them by a false tale. Bannatyne's beliavior seemed sincere and simple, that 
of Auchmdrane more resolute and crafty. The wretched accomplice fell upon his knees, invok- 
ing God to witness that all the land in Scotland could not have bribed him to bring a false accu- 
sation against a master wliom he had served, loved, and followed in so many dangers, and calling 
upon Auchindrane to honor God by confessing the crime he had committed. Mure the elder, 
on the other hand, boldly replied, that lie hoped God would not so far forsaice him as to perm.it ■ 
him to confess a crime of which he was innocent, and exhorted Bannatyne in his turn to confess 
the practices by which he had been induced to devise such falsehood against him. 

The two Mures, father and son, were therefore put upon their solemn trial along witli Banna- 
tyne, in 1611, and, after a great deal of evidence had been brought in support of Bannatyne's 
confession, ail these were found guilty. The elder Auchindrane was convicted of counselling 
and directing the murder of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, and also of the actual murder of 
the lad Dalrymple. Bannatyne and the young Mure were found guilty of the latter crime, and all 
three were sentenced to be beheaded. Bannatyne, however, the accomplice, received the King's 
pardon, in consequence of his voluntary surrender and confession. The two Mures were both 
executed. The younger was affected by the remonstrances of the clergy who attended him, and 
he confessed the guilt of which he was accused. The father, also, was at length brought to avow 
the fact, but in other respects died as impenitent as he had lived ; — and so ended this dark and 
extraordinary tragedy. 

The Lord Advocate of the day, Sir Thcmas Hamilton, afterwards successively Earl of Melrose 
and of Haddington, seems to have busied himself much in drawing up a statement of this foul 
transaction, for the purpose of vindicating to the people of Scotland the severe course of justice 
observed by King James VI. He assumes the task in a high tone of prerogative law, and on the 
whole, seems at a loss whether to attribute to Providence, or to his most sacred Majesty, the 
greatest share in bringing to light these mysterious villanies, but rather inclines to the latter 
opinion. There is, I beheve, no printed copy of the intended tract, which seems never to have 
been published ; but the curious will be enabled to judge of it, as it appears in the r\e.x\. fasciculus 
of Mr. Robert Pitcairn's very interesting publications fidm the Scottish Criminal Record. 

The family of Auchindrane did not become extinct on the death of the two homicides. The 
last decendant existed in the eighteenth century, a poor and distressed man. The following 
annecdote shows that he had a strong feeling of his situation. 

There was in front of the old castle a huge ash-tree, called the Dule-tree {mourning-tree) of 
Auchindrane, probably because it was the place where the baron executed the criminals who fell 
under his jurisdiction. It is described as having been the finest tree of the neighborhood. This 
last representative of the family of Auchindrane had the misfortune to be arrested for payment 
of a small debt ; and, unable to discharge it, was preparing to accompany the messenger (bailiff) 
to the jail of Ayr. The servant of the lavv had compassion for his prisoner, and offered to accept 
of this remarkable tree as of value adequate to the discharge of the debt. " What," said the 
debtor — " sell the Dule-tree of Auchindrane. I will sooner die in the worst dungeon of your 
prison. In this luckless character the line of Auchindrane ended. The family, blackened witi 
the crimes of its predecessors, became extinct, and the estate passed into other hands. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



John Muke of AuchindranEj^<^« Ayrshire Baron. He has been a follower of the Regent, 
Earl of Morton, during the Civil Wars, and hides an oppressive, ferocious, and unscrupulous 
disposition, under some pretences to strictness of life and doctrine, which, however, never in- 
fluence hi?, conduct. He is in danger from the law, owing to his having been formerly active 
in the assassination of the Earl of Cassilis. 

Philip Mure, his Son, a wild, debauched profligate, professing and practicing a contempt fof 
his father's hypocrisy, while he is as fierce and licentious as Auchindrane himself. 

GiFFORD, iheir Relation, a Courtier. 



494 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



QUENTIN Blane, a Youth, educated for a clergyman, but sent by Auchindrane to ser\'e 
in a Band of Auxiliaries in the wars of the Netherlands, and lately employed as Clerk 
or Comptroller to the Kegiment— disbanded, however, and on his return to his native 
Country. He is of a mild, gentle, and rather feeble character, liable to be influenced 
by any person of stronger mind who will take the trouble to direct him. He is some- 
what of a nervous temperament, varying from sadness to gaiety, according to the im- 
pulse of the moment; an amiable hypochondriac. 

HlLDEBRAND, a stout old Englishman, who, by feats of courage, has raised himself to 
the rank of Sergeant-Major (then of greater consequence than at present). He, too, 
has been disbanded, but cannot bring himself to believe that he has lost his command 
over his Regiment. 



Graham, 
Williams, 
Jenkins, 
And Others. 



Privates dismissed from the same Regiment in which Quentin and 
HlLDEBRAND had Served. These are mutinous, and are much disposed 
to remember former quarrels with their late officers. 



Neil MacLellan, Keeper of Auchindrane Forest and Game. 

Earl of Dunbar, commanding an Arjny as Lietitenant of James I., for execution of 
Justice on Offenders. "^ J J *J J 

Guards, Attendants, drc, dc. 

Marion, Wife of N mi. MacLellan. 
Isabel, their Daughter, a Girl of six years old* 
Other Children and Peasant Women. 



AUCHINDRANE; 



THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY. 



ACT. I.— Scene I. 

A rocky Bay on the Coast of Carrick, in 
Ayrshire, not far from the Point of 
Turnberry. The sea comes in upon a 
bold rocky Shore. The remains of a 
small halfntined Tower are seen on the 
right hand, overhanging the sea. There 
is a Vessel at a distance in the offing. A 
Boat at the bottom of the Stage lands 
eight or ten persons, dressed like dis- 
banded, and in one or two cases like dis- 
abled. Soldiers. They come straggling 
forward with their knapsacks and bun- 
dles. HlLDEBRAND, the Serjeant be- 
longing to the party, a stout elderly man, 
stands by the boat, as if superintending 
the disembarkation. Quentin remains 
apart. 

Abraham. Farewell the flats of Hol- 
land, and right welcome 

The cliffs of Scotland! Fare thee well, 
black beer 

And Schiedam gin ! and welcome two- 
penny 



Oatcakes, and usquebaugh I 
Williams {who wants an arm). Fare- 
well the gallant held, and " Forward, 

pikemen ! " 
For the bridge-end, the suburb, and the 

lane — 
And, " Bless your honor, noble . gentle- 

man, 
Remember a poor soldier ! " 
Abr. My tongue shall never need to 

smooth itself 
To such poor sounds, while it can boldly say, 
" Stand and deliver ! " 

WiL. Hush ! the sergeant hears you. 
Abr. And let him hear; he makes % 

bustle yonder, 
And dreams of his authority, forgetting 
We are disbanded men, o'er whom his 

halberd 
Has not such influence as the beadle's 

baton. 
We are no soldiers now, but every one 
The lord of his own person. 
WiL. A wretched lordship — and our 

freedom such 



A UCHINDRANE. 



495 



As that of the old cart-horse, when the 

owner 
Tumi, him upon the common. I for one 
Will st'll continue to respect the sergeant, 
And the comptroller, too, — while the cash 

lasts 
Ahk I scorn them both. I am too 

stout a Scotsman 
To bear a Southron's rule an instant longer 
Than discipline obliges ; and for Quentin, 

the comptroller, 
We have n^ regiment now ; or, if we 

had, 
Quentin's no longer clerk to it. 

WiL. For shame! for shame! — What, 

shall old comrades jar thus, 
And on the vergs of parting, and for- 
ever.' 
Nay, keep thy temper, Abraham, though a 

bad one. - 
Good Master Quentin, let thy song last 

night 
Give us once more cur welcome to old 

Scotland. 
Abr. Ay, they sing light whose task is 

telling money. 
When dollars clink for chorus. 

Que. I've done with counting silver, 

honest Abraham, 
As thou, I fear, with pouchine thy small 

share on't. 
But lend your voices, lads, and I will sing 
As blithely yet as if a town were won ; 
As if upon a field of battle gain'd, 
Our banners waved victorious. — [He sings, 

and the rest bear chorus.^ 

SONG. 

Hither we come. 

Once slaves to the drum. 
But no longer we list to its rattle ; 

Adieu to the wars, 

With their slashes and scars. 
The march, and the storm, and the battle. 

There are some of us maim'd, 
And some that are lamed, 

And some of old aches are complainin* ; 
But we'll take up the tools, 
Which we flung by like fools, 

'Gainst Don Spaniard to go a campaign- 
ing. 

Dick Hawthorn doth vow 
To return to the plough, 
^ck Steele to his anvil and hammet : 



The weaver shall find room 
At the wight-wapping loom, 
And your clerk shall teach writing anJ 
grammar. 

Abr. And this is all that thou canst dcy 
gay Quentin .' 

To swagger o'er a herd of parish brats, 

Cut cheese or dibble cnions with thj 
poniard. 

And turn th: sheath into a ferula ? 

Que. I am the prodigal in h )ly writ ; 

I cannot work— to beg 1 am ashamed. 

Besides, good mates, 1 caro not who may 
know ;t, 

I'm e'en as fairly tired of this same fighting, 

As the poor car that's worritd in the 
sh^mb'.es 

By all the mastiff dogs ot all the butchers ; 

Wherefore, farewell sword, poniard, petro* 
nel, 

And welcome poverty, and peaceful labor. 
Abr. Clerk Quentin, if of righting thru 
art tired, 

By my good vcrd, thou'rt quickly satisfied, 

For thou'st seen out httle on't 

WiL. Thou dost belie him— I have seen 

Bravely enough for on in his condition. 
Abr. Whai he ? that counter-casting, 
smock-faced boy ' 

What was he but th:; colonel's scribbling 
drudge. 

With men of straw to stuff the regiment 
roll ; 

With cipherings unjust to cheat his com- 
rades, 

And cloak false musters for our noble cap- 
tain ? 

He bid farewell to sword and petronel ! 

He should have said, farewell my pen and 
standish. 

These, with the rosin used to hide erasures. 

Were the best friends he left in camp 
behmd him, 
Que. The sword you scoff at is. not far, 
but scorns 

The threats of an unmanner'd mutineer. 
Ser. {interposes'} We'll havfe no brawl 
ing— Shall it e'er be said, 
I That being comrades six long years to- 
gether. 

While gulpmg down the frowsy fogs of 
Holland, 

We tilted at each other's throats so soon 

As the first draught of native air retrtsh'd 
them ? 



49^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



No ! by Sain.t Dunstan, I forbid the combat. 

You all, niethinks, do know this trusty hal- 
berd ; 

For I opine, that every back amongst you 

Hath felt the weight of the tough ashen 
staff, 

Endlong or overthwart. Who is it wishes 

A remembrancer now? {Raises /its hal- 
berd) 
A BR. Comrades, have you ears 

To hear the old man bully ? — eyes to see 

His staff rear'd o'er your heads, as o'er the 
hounds 

The huntsman cracks his whip ? 

WiL. Well said ! — stout Abraham has the 
right on't. — 

I tell thee, sergeant^ we do reverence thee, 

And pardon the rash humors thou hast 
caught, 

Like wiser men, from thy authority. 

'Tis ended, howsoe'er, and we'll not suffer 

A word of sergeantry, or halberd-staff. 

Nor the most petty threat of disciphne. 

If thou wilt lay aside thy pride of office, 

And drop thy wont of swaggering and com- 
manding, 

Thou art our comrade still for good or evil. 

Else take thy course apart, or with the clerk 
there — 

A sergeant thou, and he being all thy regi- 
ment. 
Ser. Is't come to this, false knaves ? And 
think you not, 

That if you bear a name o'er other soldiers. 

It was because you follow'd to the charge 
• One that had zeal and skill enough to lead 
you 

Where fame was won by danger ? 

WiL. We grant thy skiU in leading, 
noble sergeant , 

Witness some empty boots and sleeves 
amongst us, 

Which else had still been tenanted with 
limbs 

In the full quantity ; and for the argu- 
ments 

With which you used to back our resolu 
tion, ' 

Our shoulders do record them. At a word 

Will you conform, or must we part our 
company ? 
Ser. Conform to you ? Base dogs I I 
would not lead you 

A bolt-flight farther to be made a general. 

Mean mutineers I when you swillM ofl the 
dregs 



Of my poor sea-stores, it was, " Noble Se- 

geant ! — 
Heaven bless old Hildebrand !— we'll follow 

him. 
At least, until we safely see him lodged 
Within the merry bounds of his own Eng- 
land ! " 
WiL. Ay, truly, sir; but, mark, the ale 
was mighty. 
And the Geneva potent. Such stout hquof 
Makes violent protestations. Skink it 

round. 
If you have any left, to the same tune, 
And we may find a chorus for it still, 

A BR. We lose our time. — Tell us at once, 
old man, 
If thou wilt march with us, or stay with 
Ouentin ? 
Ser. Out, mutineers ! Dishonor dog 

your heels ! 
AbR. Wilful will have his way. Adieu, 
stout Hildebrand 1 

\_T he Soldiers go off laughing, and' 
taking leave, with mockery, of 
the Sergeant and Quentin, 
who remain on the Stage. 
Ser. {after a pause). Fly you not with 
the rest ! — fail you to follow 
Von goodly fellowship and fair example ? 
Come, take your wild-goose flight. I know 

you Scots, 
Like your own sea-towl, seek your course 
together. 
Que Faith, a poor heron I, who wing 
my flight 
In lonehness, or with a single partner ; 
And right it is that I should seek for soli- 
tude, 
Bringing but evil luck on them I herd with. 
Ser. Thou'rt thankless. Had we landed 
on the coast. 
Where our course bore us, thou wert far 

from home ; 
But the fierce wind that drove us round the 

island, 
Barring each port and inlet that we aim'd 

at. 
Hath waited thee to harbor ; for I judge 
This IS thy native land we disembark on. 
Que. True, worthy friend. Each rock, 
each stream I look on, 
Each bosk'- wood, and every frowning 

tower, 
.Awakens some young dream of infancy. 
Yet siicli is my hard hap, I might more 
safely 



i 



A UCHIA'DRAiVE. 



A97 



Have look'd on Indian cliffs, or Afric's 
desert, 

Than on my native shores. I'm like a babe 

Doom'd to draw poison from my nurse's 
bosom, 
Ser. Thou drcanvst young man. Un- 
real terrors haunt, 

As I have noted, giddy brains like thine — 

Flighty, poetic, and imaginative — 

To whom a minstrel whim gives idle rap- 
ture, 

And, when it fades, fantastic misery. 
OuE. But mine is not fantastic. I can 
~ tell thee, 

Since I have known thee still my faithful 
friend, ^ 

In part at least the dangerous plight I stand 
in. 
Ser. And I will hear thee willingly, the 
rather, 

That I would let these vagabonds march 
on, 

Nor join their troop again. Besides, good 
sooth, 

I'm wearied with the toil of yesterday, . 

And revel of last night. — And I may aid 
thee ; 

Yes, I may aid thee, comrade, and per- 
chance 

Thou may'st advantage me. 

Que. May it prove well for both! — But 
note, my friend, 

I can but intimate my mystic story. 

Some of it lies so secret, — even the winds 

That whistle round us must not know the 
whole— 

An oath ! — an oath ! 

Ser. That must be kept, of course. 

I ask but that which thou may'st freely 
tell. 
Que. I was an orphan boy, and first saw 
light 

Not far from where we stand — my lineage 
low. 

But honest in its poverty. A lord. 

The master of the soil for many a mile. 

Dreaded and powerful, took a kindly 
charge 

For my advance in letters, and the qualities 

Of the poor orphan lad drew some ap- 
plause. 

The knight was proud of me, and, in his 
halls. 

I had such kind of welcome as the great 

Give to the humble, whom they love to 
point to 

32 



Ks objects not unworthy their protection. 
Whose progress is some honor to their 

patron — 
j A cure was spoken of, which 1 might 
j serve, 

i My manners, doctrine, and acquirements 
i fitting. 

Ser. Hitherto thy luck 
; Was of the best, good friend. Few lords 
; had cared 

If thou couldst read thy grammar or thy 

psalter : 
Thou hadst been valued couldst thou scour 

a harness, 
And dress a steed distmctly 

OuE. My old master 

Held different doctrme, at least it seem'd 

so — 
But he was mix'd in many a deadly feud — 
And here my tale grows mystic I became, 
Unwitting and unwilling, the depositary 
Of a dread secret, and th. knowledge on't. 
Has wreck'd my peace forever It be- 
came 
My patron's will, that I, ?.s one who knew 
More than I should, must leav: the realm of 

Scotland, 
And live or die within a distant land 

Ser. Ah ! thou hast dv.n- a fault .n some 

wild raid, 
As you wild Scotsmen call them. 

Que. Coni.'rde, nay; 

Mine was a peaceful part, and h^pp'd by 

chance. 
I must not tell you more. Enjujh, my 

presence 
Brought danger to my b.:nef;ctor't; house. 
Tower after tower concc^i'd m,, v/iiling 

still 
To hide my ill-omen'd f.ice wllh ov.-ls and 

ravens, 
And let my patron's safety be th? purchase 
Of my severe and desolate captivity. 
So thought 1, when dark Ar.-cin, with its 

walls 
Of native rock, enclosed me. There I 

lurk'd, 
A peaceful stranger amid armed clans, 
Without a friend to love or to defend me, 
Where all beside were link'd by close alli- 
ances. 
At length I made my option to take service 
In that same legion of auxiliaries 
In which we lately served the Belgian. 
Our leader, stout Montgomery, hath been 

kind 



498 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORKS. 



Through full six years of warfare, and 

assign'd me 
More peaceful tasks than the rough front 

of war, 
For which my education little suited me. 
Ser. Ay, therein was Montgomery kind 

indeed ; 
Nay, kinder than you think, my simple 

Quentin. 
The letters which you brought to the 

Montgomery, 
Pointed to thrust thee on some desperate 

service, 
Which should most likely end thee. 
Que. Bore I such letters.-' — Surely, 

comrade, no. 
Full deeply was the writer bound to aid me. 
Perchance he only meant to prove my 

mettle ; 
And it was but a trick of my bad fortune 
That gave his letters ill interpretation. 
.Ser. Ay, but tliy better angel wrought 

for good, 
Whatever ill thy evil fate design'd thee. 
Montgomery pitied thee, and changed thy 

service 
In the rough field for labor in the tent. 
More fit for thy green years and peaceful 

habits 
Que. Even there his well-mean c kind- 
ness injured me. 
My comrades hated, undervalued me, 
And whatsoe'er of service I could do them. 
They guerdon'd with ingratitude and 

envy — 
Such my strange doom, that if I serve a 

man 
At deepest risk, he is my foe forever ! 
Ser. Hast thou worse fate than others 

if it were so ? 
Worse even than me, thy friend, thine 

officer, — 
Whom yon ungrateful slaves have pitch'd 

ashore, 
As wild waves heap the sea-weed on the 

beach, 
* nd left him here, as if he had the pest 
\- leprosy, and death were in his company ? 
Que. They think at least you have the 

worst of plas^ues. 
The worst of leprosies, — they think you 

poor. 
Ser. Thev think like lying villains then ; 

--■ I'm rich. 
And they too might have felt it I've a 

thought — 



But stay — what plans your wisdom for 

yourself ? 
Que My thoughts are well-nigh des- 
perate. But I purpose 
Return to my stern patron — there to tell 

him 
That wars, and winds, and waves, have 

cross'd his pleasure. 
And c st me on the shore from whence he 

banish'd me 
Then let him do his will, and destine for 

me 
A dungeon or a grave. 
Ser. Now, by the rood, thou art a 

simple fool ! 
I can do better for ihee. Mark m^ 

Quentin. 
I took my license from the noble regiment, 
Partly that I was worn with age and war^ 

fare, 
Partly that an estate of yeomanry, 
I Of no great purchase, but enough to live 

on. 
Has call'd me owner since a kinsman's 

death. 
It lies in merry \ orkshire, where the wealth 
Of fold and furrow, proper to Old England, 
Stretches by streams which walk no slug- 
gish pace. 
But dance as light as yours. Now, good 

friend Quentin, 
This copyhold can keep two quiet inmates^ 
And I am childless. Wilt thou be my son ? 
Que. Nay, you can only jest, my 

worthy friend ! 
What claim have I to be a burden to you ? 
Ser. The claim of him that wants, and 

is in danger. 
On him that has, and can afford protection : 
Thou wouldst not fear a foeman in my 

cottage. 
Where a stout mastiff slumber'd on the 

hearth, 
And this good halberd hung above the 

chimney ? 
But come — I have it — thou shalt earn thy 

bread 
Duly, and honorably, and usefully. 
Our village schoolmaster hath left tl-.e 

parish, 
Forsook the ancient school-house with its 

vcw-trees. 
That lurk'd beside a church two centuries 

older, — 
So \oT\% devotion took the lead of knowl» 

edge: 



AUCHINDRANE. 



499 



And since his little flock are shepherdless, 
'Tis thou shalt be promoted in his room ; 
And rather than thou wantest scholars, 

man, 
Myself will enter pupil. Better late, 
Our proverb says, than never to do well. 
And look you, on the holydays I'd tell, 
To all the wondering boors and gaping 

children, 
fetrange tales of what the regiment did in 

Flanders, 
And thou shouldst say Amen, and be my 

warrant 
That I speak truth to them. 

Que. Would 1 might take thy offer! 

But, alas ! 
Thou art the hermit who compell'd a pil- 
grim, 
In name of heaven and heavenly charity, 
To share his roof and meal, but found too 

late 
That he had drawn a curse on him and 

his. 
By sheltering a wretch foredoom'd of 

heaven ! 
Ser. Thou talk'st in riddles to me. 
Que. If I do, 

'Tis that I am a riddle to myself. 
Thou know'st I am by nature born a friend 
To glee and merriment, can make wild 

verses ; 
The jest or laugh has never stopp'd with 

me. 
When once 'twas set a rolling. 

Ser. 1 have known thee 

A blithe companion still, and wonder now 
Thou shouldst become thus crest-fallen. 
Que. Does the lark sing her descant 

when the falcon 
Scales the blue vault with bolder wing than 

hers, 
And meditates a stoop? The mirth thou'st 

noted 
Was all deception, fraud — Hated enough 
For other causes, I did veil my feelings 
Beneath the mask of mirth, — laugh'd, 

sung, and cnrnll'd. 
To gain some interest in my comrades' 

bosoms. 
Although mine own was bursting. 

Ser. Thou'rt a hypocrite 

Of a new order. 

Que. But harmless as the innoxious 

snake, 
Which bears the adder's forjn, lurks in his 

haunts, 



Yet neither hath his fang-teeth nor his 
poison. 

Look you, kind Hildebrand, I would seem 
merry, 

Lest other men should, tiring of my sad- 
ness. 

Expel me from them, as the hunted wether 

Is driven from the flock - 
Ser Faith, thou hast borne it bravcl- 
out. 

Had I been ask'd to name the merriest 
fellow 

Of all our muster-roll— that man wert 
thou. 
Que. See'st thou, my friend, yon brook 
dance down the valley. 

And sing blithe carols over broken rock 

And tiny waterfall, kissing each slirub 

And each gay flower it nurses m iti 
passage, — 

Where, thinkst thou, is its source, the 
bonny brook } — 

It flows from forth a cavern, black and 
gloomy. 

Sullen and sunless, like this heart of mine. 

Which others see in a false glare of gaycty. 

Which I have laid before you in its sad- 
ness. 
Ser. If such wild fancies dog thee, 
wherefore leave 

The trade where thou wert safe 'midst 
others' dangers, • 

And venture to thy native land, where fate 

Lies on the watch for thee ? Had old 
Montgomery 

Been with the regiment, thou hadst had 
no conge. 
Que. No, 'tis most likely — But I had a 
hope, 

A poor vain hope, that I might live 
obscurely 

In some far corner of my native Scotland, 

Which, of all others, splinter'd into dis- 
tricts, 

Differing in manners, families, even lan- 
guage, 

Seem'd a safe rc/uge for the hum! ' 
wretch 

Whose highest hope was to remain ui 
heard of. 

But fate has baffled me — the winds and 
waves. 

With force resistless, have impell'd me 
hither — 

Have driven me to the clime most dan- 
gerous to me J 



500 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And I obey the call, like the hurt deer, 
Which seeks instinctively his native lair, 
Though his heart tells him it is but to die 

there. 
Ser. 'Tis false, by Heaven, young man I 

This same despair, 
Though showing resignation in its banner, 
Is but a kind orcovcrt cowardice. 
Wise men have said, that though our stars 

incline, 
They cannot force us— Wisdom is the 

pilot. 
And if he cannot cross, he may evade them. 
You lend an ear to idle auguries, 
The fruits of our last revels— still most 

sad 
Under the gloom that follows boisterous 

mirth. 
As earth looks blackest after brilliant sun- 
shine. 
Que. No, by my honest word. I join'd 

the revel, 
And aided it with laugh and song and 

shout, 
But my heart revell'd not ; and, when the 

mirth 
Was at the loudest, on yon galliot's prow 
I stood unmark'd, and gazed upon the 

land, 
My native land— each cape and cliff I 

knew. 
" Behold me now," I said, " your destined 

victim ! " 
So greets the sentenced criminal the heads- 
man, 
Who slow approaches with his lifted axe. 
"Hither I come," I said, "ye kindred 

hills, 
Whose darksome outline in a distant land 
Haunted my slumbers; here I stand, thou 

ocean. 
Whose hoarse voice, murmuring in my 

dreams, required me ; 
See me now here, ye winds, whose plaintive 

wail, 
.On yonder distant shores, appear'd to call 

me— 
Summon'd, behold me." And the winds and 

waves, 
And the deep echoes of the distant moun- 
tain. 
Made answer — " Come, and die 1 " 
Ser. Fantastic all ! Poor boy, thou art 

distracted 
With the vain terrors of some feudal 

tyrant, 



Whose frown hath been from infancy thy 

bugbear. 
Why seek his presence ? 

Que. Wherefore does the moth 

Fly to the scorching taper .? — why the bird, 
Dazzled by lights at midnight, seek the 

net ?— 
Why does the prey, which feels the fascina- 
tion 
Of the snake's glaring eye, drop in iiis 

jaws ? 
Ser. Such wild examples but refute 

themselves. 
Let bird, let moth, let the coil'd adder's 

prey. 
Resist the fascination and be safe. 
Thou goest not near this Baron — if thou 

goest, 
I will go with thee. Known in m-iny a 

field. 
Which he in a whole life of petty feud 
Has never dream'd of, I will teach the 

knight 
To rule him in this matter — be thy warrant, 
That far from him, and from his petty lord- 
ship, 
You shall henceforth tread English land and 

never 
Thy presence shall alarm his conscience 

more. 
Que. 'Twere desperate risk for both. T 

will far rather 
Hastily guide thee through this dangerous 

province, 
And seek thy school, thy yew-trees, and thy 

churchyard; — 
The last, perchance, will be the first I find. 

Ser. I would rather face him. 
Like a bold Englishman that knows his 

right, 
And will stand by his friend. And yet 'ti» 

folly- 
Fancies like these are not to be resisted ; 
'Tis better to escape them. Many a pres 

Too rashly braved, becomes its own accom- 
plishment. 
Then let us go — But whither ? My old head 
As little knows where it shall lie to-night 
As yonder mutineers thai left their officer ; 
As reckless of his quarters as these billows, 
That leave the wither'd sea-weed on the 

beach. 
And care not where they pile it. 

Que. Think not for that, good friead 
We are in Scotland, 



A UCniNDRANE. 



501 



And if it is not varied from its wont, , 
Eacli cot, that sends a curl of smoke to 

heaven, 
Will yield a stranger quarters for the night, 
Simply because he needs them. 

Ser. But are there none within an easy 

walk 
Give lodgings here for hire ? for I have left 
Some of the Don's piastres, (though i kept 
The secret from yon gulls,) and 1 had 

rather 
Pay the fair reckoning I can well afford. 
And my host takes with pleasure, than I'd 

cumber 
Some poor man's roof with me and all my 

wants. 
And tax his charity beyond discretion. 
Que. Some six miles hence there is a 

town and hostelry. 
But you are wayworn, and it is most likely 
Our comrades must have fill'd it, 

Ser. Out upon them ! — 

Were there a friendly mastiff who would 

lend me 
Half of his supper, half of his poor kennel, 
I would help Honesty to pick his bones, 
And share his straw, far rather than I'd sup 
On jolly fare with these base varlets ! 
Que. We'll manage better ; for our Scot- 
tish dogs, 
Tho' stout and trusty, are but ill-instructed 
In hospitable rights. — Here is a maiden, 
A little maid, will tell us of the country, 
And sorely it is changed since 1 left it, 
If we should fail to find a harborage, 

Ejiier Isabel MacLellan, a girl of 
about six years oldy bearing a milk-pail 
on her head, she stops on seeijig the 
Sergeant and Quentin. 

Que. There's something in her look that 
doth remind me — 
Bat 'tis not wonder I find recollections 

In all that here I look on. — Pretty maid 

Ser. You're slow, and hesitate. I will be 
spokesman. — 
Good even, my pretty maiden — canst thou 

tell us, 
Is there a Christian house would render 

strangers, 
For love or guerdo'i?, a night's meal and 
lodging? 
ISA. Full surely, sir ; we dwell in yon old 
house 
Upon the cliff — they call it Chapeldonan. 

^Points to the building. ) 



Our house is large enough, and if our 

supper 
Chance to be scant, you shall have half of 

mine, 
For, as I think, sir, you have been a 

soldier. 
Up yonder lies our house; I'll trip before. 
And tell my mother she has guests 

a-coming ; 
The path is something steep, but you shall 

see 
I'll be there first. I must chain up the dogs 

too ; 
Nimrod and Bloodylass are cross to 

strangers, 
But gentle when you know them. 

\_Exit, and ts seen partially ascend- 
ing to the Castle. 
Ser. You have spoke 

Your country folk aright, both for the 

dogs 
And for the people. We had luck to light 
On one too young for cunning and for 

selfishness. — 
He's in a reverie — a deep one sure. 
Since the gibe on his country wakes him 

not. — 
Bestir thee, Quentin ! 

Que. 'Twas a wondrous likeness ! 

Ser. Likeness! of whom! I'll warrant 

thee of one 
Whoin thou hast loved and lost. Sucl; 

fantasies 
Live long in brains like thine, which fashion 

visions 
Of woe and death when they are cross'd in 

love. 
As most men are or have been. 

Que. The guess has touch'd me, though 

it is but slightly, 
'Mongst other woes : I knew in former 

days, 
A maid that view'd me with some glance of 

favor ; 
But my fate carried me to other shores, 
And she has since been wedded. I did think 

on't 
But as a bubble burst, a rainbow vanish'c; 
It adds no deeper shade to the dark glooni 
Which chills the springs of hope and life 

within me. 
Our guide hath got a trick of voice and 

feature 
Like to the maid I spoke of — that is all. 
Ser. She bounds befere us Uke a gam©- 

some doe. 



502 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Or rather as the rock-bred eaglet soars 
Up to her nest, as if she rose by will 
Without an effort. Now a Netherlander, . 
One of our Frogland friends, viewing the 

scene, 
Would take his oath that tower, and rock, 

and maiden, 
Were forms too light and lofty to be real. 
And only some delusion of the fancy, 
Such as men dream at sunset. 1 myself 
Have kept the level ground so many 

years, 
I have well-nigh forgot the art to climb, 
Unless assisted by the younger arm. 

[ They go off as if to ascend to the 
Tower, the Sergeant leaning 

upon QUENTIN. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to the Front of the Old Tower. 
Isabel comes forwanl with her Mother, 
— Marion speaking as they advance. 

Mar. I blame thee not, my child, for 

bidding wanderers 
Come share our food and shelter, if thy 

father 
Were here to welcome them ; but, Isai>el, 
He waits upon his lord at Auchindrane, 
And comes not home to-night. 

ISA. What then, my mother? 

The travellers do not ask to see my father ; 
Food, shelter, rest, is all the poor men 

want. 
And we can give them these without my 

father. 
Mar. Thou canst not understand, nor 

1 explain, 
Why a lone female asks not visitants 
What time her husband's absent. — {Apart.) 

My poor child, 
And if thou'rt wedded to a jealous husband, 
Thou'lt know too soon the cause. 

ISA. {partly overhearing what her mother 

says)— 
Ay, but I know already — ^Jealousy 
Is when my father chides, and you sit 

weeping. 
Mar. Out, little spy! thy father never 

chides ; 
Or, if he does, 'tis when his wife deserves 

it— 
But to our strangers ; they are old men, 

Isabel, 
That seek this shelter ? are they not ? 
ISA. One is old- 



Old as this tower of ours, and worn like 

that, 
Bearing deep marks of battles long since 
fought. 
Mar. Some remnant of the wars ; he's 
welcome, surely, 
Bringing no quality along with him 
Which can alarm suspicion. — Well, tlia 
other."* 
IsA. A young man, gentle-voiced and 
gentle-eyed, ; 

Who looks and speaks like one the world 

has frown 'd on ; 
But smiles when you smile, seeming that 

he feels 
Joy in your joy, though he himself is sad. 
Brown hair, and downcast looks. 

Mar. {alarmed). 'Tis bnt an idle 
thought — it cannot be ! 
{Listens.) 1 hear his accents — It is all too 

true — 
My terrors were prophetic ! Til com- 
pose myself. 
And then accost him firmly. Thus it 
must be. 

\^She retires hastily into the Tover. 
— The voices of the Sergeant 
^«a? Quentin are hea7-d ascend- 
ing behind the Scenes. 
Que. One effort more — we stand upon 
"' the level. 
I've seen thee work thee up glacis and 

cavalier 
Steeper than this ascent, when cannon, 

culverine. 
Musket, and hackbut, shower'd their shot 

upon thee, 
And form'd, with ceaseless blaze, a fiery 

garland 
Round the defences of the post you storm'd. 
[ They come on the stage, and at thi 
sa))ie time MARION re-enters from 
the Tower. 
Ser. Truly thou speak'st. I am th« 
tardier 
That I, in climbing hither, miss the fire, 
Which wont to tell me there was death ij» 

loitering. — 
Here stands, methinks, our hostess. 

[^He goes fortvard to address MA- 
RION. QufiNTiN, struck on see- 
ing her, keeps back. 
Ser. Kind dame, yon little lass hath 
brought you strangers, 
Willing to be a trouble, not a charge to you. 
We aro disbanded soldier';, but have means 



AUCHTNDRANB. 



503 



Ample enough to pay our journey Tiome- 

ward. 
Mar. We keep no house of general 

entertainment, 
But know our duty, sir, to locks like yours, 
Whiten'd and thinn'd by many a long cam- 
paign. 
Ill chances that my husband should be 

absent — 
(4.^ar/. )— Courage alone can make me 

struggle through it — 
For in your comrade, though he hath for- 
got me, 
I spy a friend whom I have known in 

school-days, 
And whom I think MacLellan well re- 
members. — 
{^She goes up to Ouentin.) You see a 

woman's memory 
Is faithfuller than yours : for Quentln Blane 
JIatli not a greeting left for Marion Hark- 
• ness. 
Que. {u'ith effort'). I seek, indeed, my 

native land, good Marion, 
But seek it like a stranger. — All is changed. 
And thou thyself — 

Mar. You left a giddy maiden. 

And find, on your return, a wife and 

mother. 
Thine old acquaintance, Quentin, is my 

mate — 
Stout Niel MacLellan, ranger to our lord, 
The Knight of Auchindrane. He's absent 

now, 
But will rejoice to see his former comrade. 
If, as I trust, you tarry his return. 
{Apart.) Heaven grant he understand my 

words by contraries ! 
He must remember Niel and he were rivals ; 
He must remember Niel and he were foes ; 
He must remember Niel is warm of temper. 
And think, instead of welcome, I would 

blithely 
Bid him, God speed you. But he is as 

simple 
And void of guile as ever. 

Que. Marion, I gladly rest within your 

cottage. 
And gladly wait return of Niel MacLellan, 
To clasp his hand, and wish him happmess. 
Some rising feelings might perhaps prevent 

this— 
But 'tis a peevish part to grudge our friends 
Their share of fortune because we have 

miss'd it : 
I can wish others joy and happiness, 



Though I must ne'er partake them. 

Mar. But if it grieve you 

Que. No! do not fear. The briglitest 
gleams of hope 
That slune on me are such as are reflected 
From those which shine on others. 

\The Sergeant and Quentin 

enter the Tower with the little 

Girl. 

Mar. (comes fonvard, and speaks in 

agitation') — 

Even so ! the simple youth has miss'd my 

meaning : 
I shame to make it plainer, or to say. 
In one brief word. Pass on. — Heaven guide 

the bark, 
For we are on the breakers ! 

\^Exit into the Tower. 

ACT n.— Scene L 

A 'Withdrajving Apartment in the Castle 
of Auchindrane. Servants place a 
Table, with a Flask of Wine and 
Drinking-Cups. 

Enter Mure of Auchindrane, iv'dh 
Albert Gifford, his Relation and 
'Visitor. They place themselves by l!ie 
Table after some complitnentary cere- 
mony. At some distance is heard the 
noise of revelling. 

AucH. We're better placed for confiden- 
tial talk. 
Than in the hall lill'd with disbanded 

soldiers. 
And fools and fiddlers gather'd on the high- 
way, — 
The wortliy guests whom Philip crowds my 

hall witii, 
And with them spends his evening. 

GiF. But think you not, my friend, that 
your son Philip 
Should be participant of these our counsels. 
Being so deeply mingled in the dan'_;ei — 
Your house's only heir — your only son ? 
AuCH. Kind cousin Gifford, if thou 
lack'st good counsel 
At race, at cockpit, or at gambling table, 
Or any freak by which men cheat then> 

selves 
As well of life as of the means to live, 
Call for assistance upon Philip Mure ; 
But in all serious parley spare invoking 'aim. 
GiK. You speak too lightly of my cousin 
Philip; 



504 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



All name him brave in arms. 

Aucii. A second Bevis ; 

But I, my youth bred up in graver fashions, 
Mourn o'er the mode of life ni which he 

spends, 
Or rather dissipates, his time and substance. 
No vasjabond escapes his search— The 

soldier 
Spurn'd from the service, henceforth to be 

rufifian 
Upon his own account, is Piiilip's comrade ; 
The fiddler, whose crack'd crowd has still 

three strings on't ; 
The balladeer, whose voice has still two 

notss left ; 
Whate'er is roguish, and whate'er is vile. 
Are welcome to the board of Auchindrane, 
And Philip will return them shout for shout, 
And pledge for jovial pledge, and song for 

song. 
Until the shame-faced sun peep at our 

windows. 
And ask, " What have we here ? " 
GiF. You take such revel deeply; — we 

are Scotsmen, 
Far known for rustic hospitality, 
That mind not birth or titles in our guests : 
The harper has his seat beside our hearth, 
The wanderer must find comfort at our 

board, 
His name unask'd, his pedigree unknown ; 
So did our ancestors, and so must we. 
AucH, All this is freely granted, worthy 

kinsman ; 
And prithee do not think me churl enough 
To count how many sit beneath my salt. 
Tve wealth enough to fill my father's hall 
Each day at noon, and feed the guests who 

crowd it ; 
I am near mate with those whom men call 

Lord, 
Though a rude western knight. But mark 

me, cousin, 
Although I feed wayfaring vagabonds, 
I make them not my comrades. Such as I, 
Who have advanced the fortunes of my 

line. 
And swell'd a baron's turret to a palace, 
Have oft the curse awaiting on our thrift, 
To see, while yet we live, the things which 

must be 
At our decease — the downfall of our family, 
The loss of land and lordship, name and 

knighthood, 
The wreck of the fair fabric we have built, 
By a degenerate heir. Philip Jms that 



Of inborn meanness in him, that he loves 

not 
The company of betters nor of equals ; 
Never at ease, unless he bears the bell, 
And crows the loudest in the company. 
He's m'esh'd, too, in the snares of every 

female 
Who deigns to cast a passing glance on 

him— 
Licentious, disrespectful, rash, and prof- 
ligate 
GiF. Come, my good coz, think we too 

have been young. 
And 1 will swear that in your father's life. 

lime 
You Iiave yourself been trapp'd by toys 

like these. 
AucH. A fool I may have been — but 

not a madman ; 
1 never play'd the rake among my fol- 

lowers, 
Pursuing this man's sister, that man's wife ; 
And therefore never saw 1 man of mine, 
When summon'd to obey my best, grow 

restive, 
Talk of his honor, of his peace destroy'd, 
And, while obeying, mutter threats of 

vengeance. 
But now the humor of an idle j'outh. 
Disgusting trusted followers, sworn de- 
pendents, 
Plays football with his honor and my 

safety. 
GiF. I'm sorry to find discord in youf 

house, 
For I had hoped, while bringing you cold 

news, 
To find you arm'd in union 'gainst the 

danger. 
AucH. What can man speak that J 

would slirink to hear. 
And where the danger I would deign ta 

shun ? {He rises.) 
What should appal a man inured to perils, 
Like the bold climber on the crags- of Ailsa.' 
Winds whistle past him, billows rage be- 
low, 
The sea-fowl sweep around, with shriek 

and clang, 
One single slip, one unadvised pace. 
One qualm of giddiness — and peace be 

with him ! 
But he whose grasp is sure, whose step is 

firm, 
Whose brain is constant — he makes one 

proud rock 



AUCHINDRANE. 



505 



The means to scale another, till he stand 
Trhimpliant on the peak. 

GiF. And so I trust 

Thou wilt surmount the danger now ap- 
proaching, 
Which scarcely can I frame my tongue to 

tell you, 
Thougli I rode here on purpose. 

AucH. Cousin, I think thy heart was 

never coward, 
And strange it seems thy tongue should 

take such semblance. 
I've lieard of many a loud-mouth'd, noisy 

braggart, 
Whose hand gave feeble sanction to his 

tongue ; 
But tliou art one whose heart can think 

bold things, 
Whose hand can act them — but who 

shrinks to speak them ! 
GiF. And if I speak them not, 'tis that 

I shame 
To tell tliee of the calumnies that load thee. 
Things loudly spoken at the city Cross — 
Things closely whisper'd in our Sovereign's 

ear — 
Things which the plumed lord and flat- 

capp'd citizen 
Do circulate amid their different ranks- 
Things false, no doubt ; but, falsehoods 

while I deem them, 
Still hononng thee, I shun the odious 

topic. 
AuCH. Shun it not, cousin ; 'tis a friend's 

best office 
To bring the news we hear unwillingly. 
The sentinel, who tells the foe's approach. 
And wakes the sleeping camp, does but 

his duty : 
Be thou as bold in telling me of danger, 
As 1 shall be in facing danger told oif. 

GiF. I need not bid thee recollect the 

deatli-feud 
That raged so long betwixt thy house and 

Cassilis ; 
I need not bid thee recollect the league, 
When royal James himself stood mediator 
Between thee and Earl Gilbert. 

AucH. Call you these news? — You 

might as well have told me 
That old King Coil is dead, and graved at 

Kylesfeld. 
I'll help thee out — King James com- 
manded us 
Henceforth to live in peace, made us clasp 

hands too. 



O, sir, when such an union hath been made, 
In heart and hand conjoining mortal foes. 
Under a monarch's royal mediation. 
The league is not forgotten. And with this 
What . is there to be told ? The King 

commanded— 
" Be friends." No doubt we were so— . 

Who dares doubt it ? 
GiF. You speak but half the tale. 
AucH. By good Saint Trimon, but 111 

tell the whole ! 
There is no terror in the tale for me — 
Go speak of ghosts to children ! — This 

Earl Gilbert 
(God sain him) loved Heaven's peace as 

well as 1 did, 
And we were wondrous friends wiiene'er 

we met 
At church or market, or in burrows town. 
Midst this, our good Lord Gilbert, Earl of 

Cassilis, 
Takes purpose he would journey forth to 

Edinburgh. 
The King was doling gifts of abbey-lands, 
Good things that thrifty house was wont to 

fish for. 
Our mighty Earl forsakes his sea-w-ash'd 

castle. 
Passes our borders some four miles from 

hence ; 
And, holding it unwholesome to be fasters 
Long after sunrise, lo ! the Earl and train 
Dismount, to rest their nags and eat their 

breakfast. 
The morning rose, the small birds caroll'd 

sweetly — 
The corks were drawn, the pasty brooks 

incision — 
His lordship jests, his train are choked with 

laughter ; 
When,— wondrous change of cheer, and 

most unlook"d for, 
Strange epilogue to bottle and to baked 

meat ! — 
Flash'd from the greenwood half a score of 

carabines ; 
And the good Earl of Cassilis, in his 

breakfast, 
Had nooning, dinner, supper, all at once, 
Even in the morning that he closed hi» 

journey ; 
And the grim sexton, for his chamberlain. 
Made him the bed which rests the head for- 
ever. 
GiF, Told with much spirit, cousin—- 

some there are 



5o6 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Would add, and in a toue resembling 

triiimpli, 
And would that with these long establish'd 

facts 
My tale began and ended ! 1 must tell you, 
That evil-deemhig censures of the events, 
Both at the time and now, throw blame on 

thee— 
Time, place, and circumstance, they say, 

proclaim thee, 
AHke, the author of that morning's ambush. 
AucH. Ay, 'tis an old belief in Carrick 

here, 
Where natives do not always die in bed, 
That if a Kennedy shall not attain 
Methuselah's last span, a Mure has slain 

him ; 
Such is the general creed of all their clan. 
Thank Heaven, that they are bound to prove 

the charge 
They are so prompt in making. They have 

clamor'd 
Enough of this before, to show their malice. 
But what said these coward pickthanks 

when I came 
Before the King, before the Justicers, 
Rebutting all their calumnies,, and daring 

them 
To show that I knew aught of Cassilis' 

journey — 
Which way he meant to travel — where to 

halt- 
Without which knowledge I possess'd no 

means 
To dress an ambush for him ? Did I not 
Defy the assembled clan of Kennedys, 
To show, by proof direct or inferential, 
Wiierefore they slander'd me with this foul 

charge ! 
My gauntlet rung before them in the court, 
And I did dare the best of them to lift it, 
And prove such charge a true one — Did I 

not? 
GiF. I saw your gauntlet lie before the 

Kennedys, 
Who lookM on it as men do on an adder. 
Longing to crush, and yet afraid to grasp it. 
Not an eye sparkled — not a foot ad- 
vanced — 
No arm was stretch' d to lift the fatal sym- 
bol. 
AucH. Then, wherefore do the hildings 

murmur now ? 
Wish they to see again, how one bold 

Mure 
Can baffle and defy their assembled valor ? 



GiF. No; but they speak of evidence 

suppress'd. 
AucH. Suppress'd! — what evidence .-"— 

by whom suppress'd ? 
What Will-o'-Wisp — what idiot of a wit' 

ness. 
Is he to whom they trace an empty voice. 
But cannot show his person 1 

GiF. They pretend, 

With the King's leave, to bring it to a trial ; 
Averring that a lad named Ouentin Blane 
Brought thee a letter from the murder'd 

Earl, 
With friendly greetings, telling of his 

journey. 
The liour which he set forth, the place he 

halted at, — 
Affording thee the means to form the am- 
bush. 
Of wliich your hatred made the application. 
AucH. A prudent Earl, indeed, if such 

his practice. 
When dealing with a recent enemy ! 
And what sliould he propose by such strange 

confidence 
In one who sought it not ? 

GiF. His purposes were kindly, say the 

Kennedys — 
Desiring you would meet him where he 

halted. 
Offering to undertake whate'er commis- 
sions 
You listed trust him with, for court or city! 
And, thus apprised of Cassilis' purposed 

journey, 
And of his halting-place, you placed the 

ambush. 

Prepared the homicides 

AucH. They're free to say their pleasure. 

They are men 
Of the new court — and I am but a frag- 
ment 
Of stout old Morton's faction. It is reason 
That such as I be rooted from the earth, 
That they may have full room to spread 

their branches. 
No doubt, 'tis easy to find strolHng v.'.» 

grants 
To prove whate'er they prompt. This 

Ouentin Blane — 
Did you not call him so ? — why comes he 

now.? 
And wherefore not before? This must be 

answer'd — ■ 
{Abrtiptly) — Where is he now ? 

GiF. Abroad — they say— kidnapp'd. 



AUCHINDRANE. 



5^ 



By you kidnapp'd, that he might die in 

Flanders. 
But orders have been sent for liis discharge, 
And his transmission hither. 

AuCH. '^assuming an air of com- 
posure) — 
When they produce such witness, cousin 

Gifford, 
We'll be prepared to meet it. In the mean 

while. 
The King doth ill to throw his royal 

sceptre 
In the accuser's scale, ere he can know 
How justice shall incline it. 

GiF. Our sage prince 

Resents, it may be, less the death of Cas- 

silis, 
Than he is angry that the feud should 

burn, 
After his royal voice had said, " Be 

quench'd : " 
Thus urging pros'ecution less for slaughter. 
Than that, being done against the King's 

command. 
Treason is mix'd with homicide. 

AuCH. Ha! ha! most true, my cousin. 
Why, well consider'd,''tis a crime so great 
To slay one's enemy, the King forbidding 

It, 
Like parricide, it should be held impos- 
sible. 
'Tis just as if a wretch retain'd the evil, 
When the King's touch had bid the sores be 

heal'd ; 
And such a crime merits the stake at least. 
What! can there be within a Scottish 

bosom 
A feud so deadly, that it kept its ground 
When the King said. Be friends 1 It is not 

credible. 
Were I King James, I never would believe 

it - 
I'd rather think the story all a dream. 
And that there was no friendship, feud, nor 

journey. 
No halt, no ambush, and no Earl of Cas- 

silis, 
Than dream anointed Majesty has 

wrong ! — 
GiF. Speak within door, coz. 
AucH. O, true. — {Aside) — I shall 

betray myself 
Even to this half-bied fool. — I must have 

room, 
Room for an instant, or I suffocate. — 
Cousin, I prithee c^ll our Philip hither— 



Forgive me ; 'twere more m.eet I summon'd 

him 
Myself ; but then the sight of yonder revel 
Would chafe my blood, and I have need of 

coolness. 
GiF. I understand thee — I will bring him 

straight. [Exit 

AucH. And if thou dost, .he's lost his 

ancient trick 
To fathom, as he wont, his five-pint 

flagons. — 
This space is mine — O for the power to fil 

it, 
Instead of senseless rage and empty curses, 
With the dark spell which witches learn from 

fiends, 
That smites the object of their hate afar, 
Nor leaves a token of its mystic action. 
Stealing the soul from out the unscathed 

body. 
As lightning melts the blade, nor harms the 

scabbard ! 
— 'Tis vain to wish for it — Each curse of 

mine 
Falls to the ground as harmless as the 

arrows 
Which children shoot at stars ! The time 

for thought, 
If thought could aught avail me, melts 

away, 
Like to a snowball m a schoolboy's hand, 
That melts the faster the more close he 

grasps it ! — 
If I had time, this Scottish Solomon, 
Whom some call son of David the Musi- 
cian, 
Might find it perilous work to march to 

Carrick . 
There's many a feud still slumbering in its 

ashes, 
Whose embers are yet red. Nobles we 

have, 
Stout as old Graystcel, and as hot as Both- 
well ; 
Here too are castles look from crags as high 
On seas as wide as Logan's. So the 

King- 
Pshaw ! He is here again — 

EnU^r GiFFORD. 
GiF I heard you name 

The King, my kinsman ; know, he comes 
not hither. 
AucH. {affecting indifference). Nay, then 
we need not broach our barrels, 
cousin, 



5o8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Nor purchase us new jerkins, — Comes not 

Philip ? 
GlF, Yes sir. He tarries but to drink a 

service 
To his good friends at parting. 

AuCH. Friends for tlie beadle or the 

sheriff-officer. 
Well, let it pass. Who comes, and how 

attended, 
Since James designs not westward ? 

GiF. O you shall have, instead, his fiery 

functionary, 
George Home that was, but now Dunbar's 

great Earl ; 
He leads a royal host, and comes to show 

you 
How he distributes justice on the Border, 
Where judge and hangman oft reverse tiveir 

office. 
And the noose does its work before tlie 

sentence. 
But I have said my tidings best and worst. 
None but yourself can know what course 

the time 
And peril may demand. To lift your 

banner. 
If I might be a judge, were desperate 

game : 
Ireland and Galloway offer you con- 
venience 
For flight, if flight be thought the better 

remedy ; 
To face the court requires the conscious- 
ness 
And confidence of innocence. You alone 
Can judge if you possess these attributes. 

{A 7ioise lehmd the scenes. ) 
Aucn. Philip, 1 think, has broken up 

his revels ; 
His ragged regiment are dispersing them. 
Well liquor'd, doubtless. They're dis- 
banded soldiers, 
Or some such vagabonds. — Here comes the 

gallant. 

Enter Philip. He has a buff-coat and 
head-piece, wears a sword atid dagger, 
with pistols at his girdle. He appears 
to be affected by liquor, but to be by no 
means intoxicated. 

AuCH. You scarce have been made 
known to one another. 
Although you sate together at the board. — 
Son Philip, know and prize our cousin 
Gifford 
Phi. {tastes the wine on the table)— 



If you had praised him, sir, you had been 

loth 
To have welcomed him in bastard Alicant. 
ril make amends, by pledging his good 

journey 
In glorious Burgundy. — The stirrup-cup, 

ho I 
And bring my cousin's horses to the court, 

A u C H . ( draws h im aside) — 
The stirrup-cup! He doth not ride to 

night — 
Shame on such churlish conduct to a 

kinsman ! 
Phi. [aside to his fathcj'). I've news 

of pressing import. 
Send the fool off. — Stay, I will start him 

for you. 
{To Gi'F.) Yes, my kind cousin. Burgundy 

is better, 
On a night-ride, to those who thread our 

moors, 
And we may deal it freely to our friends, 
For we came freely by it. Yonder ocean 
Rolls many a purple cask upon our shore. 
Rough with embossed shells and shagged 

sea-weed. 
When the good skipper and his careful 

crew 
Have had their latest earthly draught of 

brine. 
And gone to quench, or to endure their 

thirst, 
Where nectar's plenty, or even water's 

scarce, 
And filter'd to the parched crew by drops- 
full. 
AucH. Thou'rt mad, son Philip! Gif- 

ford's no intruder. 
That we should rid him hence by such wild 

rants : 
My kinsman hither rode at his own danger, 
To tell us that Dunbar is hasting to us. 
With a strong force, and with the King's 

commission, 
To enforce against our house a hateful 

charge, 
With every measure of e.xlremity. 
Phi. And is this all that our good 

cousin tells us ? 
I can say more, thanks to the ragged 

regiment, 
With whose good company you have up< 

braided me. 
On whose authority, I tell thee, cousin, 
Dunbar is here already. 
GIF. Already ? 



AUCHINDRANE. 



509 



Phi. Yes, gentle coz. And you, my 
sire, be hasty 
m what you think to do. 

AucH. I think tliou darest not jest on 
such a subject. 
Where hadst thou these fell tidings ? 

Phi. Where you, too, might have heard 
them, noble father, 
^ave that your ears, naiPd to our kins- 
man's lips, 
Would list no coarser accents. O, my 

soldiers, 
My merry crew of vagabonds, forever ! 
Scum of the Netherlands, and wash'd 

ashore 
Upon this coast like unregarded sea-weed, 
They had not been two hours on Scottish 

land. 
When, lo ! they met a military friend, 
An ancient fourier, known to them of old, 
Who, warm'd by certain stoups of search- 
ing wine, 
Inform'd his old companions that Dunbar 
Left Glasgow yesterday, comfes here to- 
morrow ; 
Himself, he said, was sent a spy before, 
To view what preparations we were 
making. 
AuCH. {to GiF.) If this be sooth, good 
kinsman, thou must claim 
To take a part with us for life and death, 
Or speed from hence, and leave us to our 
fortune. 
GiF. In such dilemma, 
Believe me, friend, I'd choose upon the 

instant — 
But I lack harness, and a steed to charge 

on. 
For mine is overtired, and, save my page. 
There's not a man to back me. But I'll hie 
To Kyle, and raise my vassals to your aid. 

Phi. 'Twill be when the rats, 
That on these tidings fly this house of 

ours, 
Come back to pay their rents. — {Apart.) 

AuCH. Courage, cousin ! — 

Thou goest not hence ill mounted for thy 

need . 
Full lorty coursers f^eed m my wide stalls— 
The best of them is yours to speed your 
journey. 
Phi. Stand not on ceremony, gBod ou* 
cousin, 
When safety signs, to shorten courtesy. 
GiF. (jfoAucH.) Farewell, then, cousin, 
for my tarrying here 



Were ruin to myself, small aid to you ; 
Yet loving well your name and family, 
I'd fain — 

Phi. Be gone ?— that is our object, too— 
Kinsman, adieu. 

\Exit GiFFORD, Philip calls after 
hhn. 

You yeoman of the stable. 

Give Master Gifford there my fleetest steed, 

Yon cut-tail'd roan that trembles at a 

spear. — 

( Trampling of the horse heard going 

#•) 
Hark ! he departs. How sv/ift the dastard 

rides, 
To shun the neighborhood of jeopardy ! 

{He lays aside the appearance of 
levity which he has hitherto -worn^ 
and says very seriously) — 

And, now, my father — 
AucH. And now, my son— thou'st ta'en 
a perilous game 
Into thine hands, rejecting elder counsel, — 
How dost thou mean to play it ? 

Phi, Sir, good gamesters play not 
Till they review the cards which fate has 

dealt them. 
Computing thus the chances of the game ; 
And woefully they seem to weigh against 
us 
AuCH. Exile's a passing ill, and may be 
borne ; 
And when Dunbar, and all his myrmidons 
Are eastward turn'd, we'll seize our own 
again. 
Phi. Would that were all the risk we 
had to stand to I 
But more and worse, — a doom of treason, 

forfeiture. 
Death to ourselves, dishonor to our house, 
Is what the stern Justiciary menaces ; 
And, fatally for us, he hath the means 
To make his threatenings good. 

AucH. It cannot be. I tell thee, there's 
no force 
In Scottish law to raze a house like mine. 
Coeval with the time the Lords of Gal- 
loway 
Submitted them unto the Scottish sceptre, 
Renouncing rights of Tanistry and Brehon. 
Some dreams they have of evidence- 
some suspicion ; 
But old Montgomery knows my purpose 

well, 
And long before their mandate reach thg 
camp 



5IO 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To crave the presence oi this mighty wit- 
ness. 
He wiU be fitted with an answer to it. 
Phi. Father, what we call great, is often 

ruin'd 
By means so ludicrously disproportion'd, 
They make me think upon the gunner's 

linstock, 
Which, yieldmg forth a light about the 

size 
And semblance of the glowworm, yet 

applied 
To powder, blew a palace into atoms, 
Sent a young King— a young Queen's mate 

at least — 
Into the an-, as high as e'er flew night- 
hawk, 
And made such wild work in the realm of 

Scotland, 
As they can tell who heard,— and you were 

one 
Who saw, perhaps, the night-flight which 

began it. 
AucH. If thou hast naught to speak but 

drunken folly, 
I cannot hsten longer. 

Phi. I will speak brief and sudden. — 

There is one 
Whose tongue to us has the same perilous 

force 
Which Bothwell's powder had to Kirk of 

Field ; 
One whose least tones, and those but peas- 
ant accents, 
Could rend the roof off our fathers' castle, 
Level its tallest turret with its base ; 
And he that doth possess this wondrous 

power 
Sleeps this same night not five miles distant 

from us. 
AuCH. {who had looked on Philip with 

much appearance of astonishment and 

doiibt, exclaims) — 
Then thou art mad indeed ! Ha ! ha ! I'm 

glad on't. 
I'd purchase an escape from what I dread. 
Even by the frenzy of my only son ! 

Phi. I thank you, but agree not to the 

bargain. 
You rest on what yon civet cat has said : 
Yon silken doublet, stuff'd with rotten 

straw. 
Told you but half the truth, and knew no 

more. 
But my good vagrants had a perfect 
tale: 



They told me, little iudging the import- 
ance, 
That Quentin Blane had been discharged 

witli them 
They told me, that a quarrel happM at 

landmg. 
And that the youngster and an ancient 

sergeant 
Had left their company, and taken refuge 
In Chapeldonan. where our ranger dwells ; 
They saw him scale the cliff on which it 

stands. 
Ere they were out of sight , the old man with 

him. 
And therefore laugh no more at me as 

mad ; 
But laugh, if thou hast list for merriment, 
To think he stands on the same land with 

us. 
Whose absence thou wouldst deeni were 

cheaply purchased 
With thy soul's ransom and thy body's 

danger. 
AucH. 'Tis then a fatal truth. Thou art 

no yelper 
To open rashly on so wild a scent ; 
Thou'rt the " young bloodhound, which 

careers and springs, 
Frolics and fawns, as if the friend of man, 
But seizes on his victim like a tiger. 
Phi. No matter what 1 am— I'm as you 

bred me ; 
So let that pass till there be time to mend 

me, 
And let us speak like men, and to the pur- 
pose 
This object of our fear and of our dread, 
Since such our pride must own him, sleeps 

to-night 
Within our power : — to-morrow in Dun' 

bar's, 
And we are then his victims. 
AuCH He is in o?/yj to-night. 
Phi. He is. I'll answer that MacLellan's 

trusty. 
Auch. Yet he replied to you to-day full 

ludely. 
Phi. Yes' the poor knave has got a 

handsome wife. 
And is gone mad with jealousy, 

Auch Fool I — when we need the utmost 

fa;ith, allegiance, 
Obedience, and attachment in our vassals. 
Thy wild intrigues pour gall into theu 

hearts, 
And turn their love to hatred 1 



A UCHINDRANE. 



5" 



Phi Most reverend sire, you talk of 
ancient morals, 
Preach'd on by Knox, and practised by 

Glen cairn : 
Respectable, indeed, but somewhat musty 
In these our modern nostrils. In our days 
If a younq baron chance to leave his vassal 
The sole possessor of a handsome wife, 
'T IS sign he loves his follower ; and it not. 
He loves his follower's wife, which often 

proves 
The surer bond of patronage. Take either 

case 
Favor flows in of course, and vassals rise. 

AucH. Philip, this is infamous, 
And what is worse, impolitic. Take ex- 
ample ■■ 
Break not God's laws or man's for each 

temptation 
That youth and blood suggest. I am a 

man — 
A weak and erring man ; — full well thou 

know'st 
That I may hardly term myself a pattern 
Even to my son ; yet thus far will I say, 
I never swerved from my integrity. 
Save at the voice of strong necessity. 
Or such o'erpowering view of high ad- 
vantage 
As wise men liken to necessity, 
In strength and force compulsive. No one 

saw me 
Exchange my reputation for my pleasure, 
Or do the Devil's woik without his wages. 
I practised prudence, and paid tax to vir- 
tue, 
By following her behests, save where strong 

leason 
Compeird a deviation. Then, if preachers 
At times look'd sour, or elders shook their 

heads. 
They could not term my walk irregular ; 
For I stood up still tor the worthier cause, 
A pillar, though a flaw'd one, of the altar. 
Kept a strict walk, and led three hundred 
horse. 
Phi. Ah, these three hundred horse in 
such rough times 
Were better commendation to a party 
Than all your efforts at hypocrisy, 
Betray'd so oft by avarice and ambition, 
And dragg'd to open shame. But, righteous 

father, 
When sire and son unite in mutual crime, 
And join their efforts to the same enormity. 
It IS no time to measure other's faults, 



Or fix the amount of each. Most moral 

father, 
Think if it be a moment to weigh 
The vices of the Heir ot Auchindrane, 
Or take precaution that the ancient hous3 
Shall have another heir than the sly cour« 

tier 
That's gaping for the forfeiture. 

AuCH. We'll disappoint him, Philip,— 
We'll disappoint him yet. It is a folly, 
A wilful cheat, to cast our eyes behind, 
When time, and the fast flitting oppor- 
tunity, 
Call loudly — nay, compel us to look for- 
ward : 
Why are we not already at MacLellan's, 
Since there the victim sleeps ? 

Phi. Nay, soft, I pray thee. 

I had not made your piety my confessor. 
Nor enter'd in debate on these sage coun- 
sels, 
Which you're more like to give than I to 

profit by. 
Could I have used the time more use- 
fully ; 
But first an interval must pass between 
The fate of Ouentin and the little artifice 
That shall detach him from his comrade. 
The stout old soldier that I told you of. 
AucH. How work a point so difficult — so 

dangerous t 
Phi. 'Tis cared for. Mark, my father, 
the convenience 
Arising from mean company. My agents 
Are at my hand, like a good workman's 

tools, 
And if I mean a mischief, ten to one 
That they anticipate the deed and guilt. 
Well knowing this, when first the vagrants' 

tattle 
Gave me the hint that Ouentin was so 

near us, 
Instant I sent MacLellan, with strong 

charges 
To stop him for the night, and bring me 

word. 
Like an accomplish 'd spy, how all things 

stood. 
Lulling the enemy into security. 

AucH. There was a prudent general I 
Phi. MacLellan went and came within the 
hour. 
The jealous bee, which buzzes in his night- 
cap, 
Had humm'd to him, this telLw, Quentin 
Blane, 



512 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Had been in schoolboy days an humble 

lover 
Of his own pretty wife — 

AucH. Most fortunate ! 

The knave will be more prompt to serve our 

purpose. 
Phi. No doubt on't. 'Mid the tidings 

he brough.t back, 
Was one of some importance. The old 

man 
Is flush of dollars ; this I caused him tell 
Among his comrades, who became as 

eager 
To have him in their company, as e'er 
They had been wild to part with him. And 

in brief space, 
A letter's framed- by an old hand amongst 

them. 
Familiar with such feats. It bore the 

name 
And character of old Montgomery, 
Whom he might well suppose at no great 

distance, 
.Commanding his old Sergeant Hildebrand, 
By all the ties of late authority, 
Conjuring him by ancient soldiership, 
To hasten to his mansion instantly, 
On business of high import, with a charge 

To come alone 

AucH. Well, he sets out, I doubt it not : 

what follows ? 
Phi. I am not curious into others' prac- 
tices, — 
So far I'm an economist in guilt. 
As you, my sire, advise. But on the road 
To old Montgomery's he meets his com- 
rades ; 
They nourish grudge against him and his 

dollars. 
And things may hap, which counsel, learn'd 

in ht.y. 
Call Robbery and Murder. Should he live, 
He has seen i.aught that we would hide from 

him. 
AycH. Who carries the forged letter to 

the veteran .'' 
Phi. Why, Kiel MacLellan, who return'd 

agam 
To liis own tower, as if to pass the night 

there. 
They pass'd on him, or tried to pass, a 

story, 
As if they wish'd the sergeant's company, 
Without the young comptroller's — that is, 

Quentm's, 
And he became an agent of their plot, 



That he might better carry on our o\vn. 
AucH There's life in it — ves, there is 

life in't ; 
And we will have a mounted party ready 
To scour the moors in quest of the banditti 
That kill'd the poor old man — they shall die 

instantly. 
Dunbar shall see us use sharp justice here, 
As well as he in Tevio*,dale. You are sure 
You gave no hint nor impulse to their pur- 

pose .'' 
Phi. It needed not. The whole pack 

oped at once 
Upon the scent of dollars. — But time comes 
When I must seek the tower, and act with 

Niel 
What farther's to be done. 

AucH. Alone with him thou goest not. 

He bears grudge — 
Thou art my only son, and on a night 
When such wild passions are so free 

abroad, 
When such wild deeds are doing, 'tis but 

natural 
I guarantee thy safety. — I'll ride with thee. 
Phi. E'en as you will, my lord. But — 

pardon me — 
If you will come, let us not have a word 
Of conscience, and of pity, and forgiveness ; 
Fine words to-morrow, out of place to- 
night. 
Take counsel, then — leave all this work to 

me; 
Call up your household, make fit prepara- 
tion, 
In love and peace, to welcome this Earl 

Justiciar, 
As one that's free of guilt. Go, deck the 

castle 
As for an honor'd guest. Hallow the 

chapel 
(If they' have power to hallow it) with thy 

prayers. 
Let me ride forth alone, and ere the sun 
Comes o'er the eastern hill, thou shalt 

accost him : 
" Now do thy worst, thou oft-returring spy, 
Here's naught thou canst discover.'' 
AucM. Yet goest thou not alone with that 

MacLellan ! 
He deems thou bearest will to injure him. 
And seek'st occasion suiting to such will. 
Philip, thou art i/reverent, fierce, ill- 
nurtured, 
Stain'd with low vices, which disgust x 

father : 



A UCHINDRANE. 



513 



Yet ridest thou not alone with yonder 
man, — 

Come weal, come woe, myself will go with 
thee. 
\Exit, and calls to horss behittd the scene. 
Fhi. (alone). Now would I give my fleet- 
est horse to know 

What sudden thought roused this paternal 
care, 

And if 'tis on his own account or mine ; 

'Tis true, he hath the deepest share m all 

That's likely now to hap, or which has hap- 
pen'd. 

Yet strong through Nature's universal reign, 

The link which binds the parent to the off- 
spring : 

The she-wolf knows it, and the tigress owns 
it. 

So that dark man, who, shunning what is 
vicious, 

Ne'er turn'd aside from an atrocity, 

Hath still some care left for his hapless off- 
spring. 

Therefore 'tis meet, though wayward, light, 
and stubborn, 

That I should do for him all that a son 

Can do for sire — and his dark wisdom 
join'd 

To influence my bold courses, 'twill be hard 

To break our mutual purpose.— Horses 
there 1 {Exit. 

ACT III.— Scene I. 

// is Moonlight. The Scene is the Beach 
be7ieath the Tower uhich ivas exhibited 
in the first scene, — the Vessel is gone 
from her anchorage. AuCHlNDRANE 
and Philip, as*"/ dismon^tted from their 
horses, come forward cautiously. 

Phi. The nags are safely stow'd. Their 

noise might scare him ; 
Let them be safe, and ready when we need 

, them. 
The business but short. We'll call Mac- 

Lellan, 
To wake him, and in quiet bring him forth, 
If he be so disposed, for here are waters 
Enough to drown, and sand enough to cover 

him. 
But if he hesitate, or fear to meet us, 
By heaven I'll deal him in Chapeldonan 
With my own hand ! — 

AuCH. Too furious boy ! alarm or noise 

undoes us : 
Our practice must be silent as 'tis sudden. 



Bethink thee that conviction of this slaugh- 
ter 
Confirms the very worst of accusations 
Our foes can bring against us. Wherefore 

should we, 
Who by our birth and fortune mate with 

nobles, 
And are allied with them, take this lad's 

life,— 
His peasant life, — unless to quash his evi- 
dence, 
Taking such pains to rid him from the 

world. 
Who would, if spared, have fix'd a crime 
upon us. 
Phi. Well, I do own me one of those 
wise folks. 
Who think that when a deed of fate is 

plann'd, 
The execution cannot be too rapid. 
But do we still keep purpose ^. Is't deter- 
mined 
He sails for Ireland — and without a 

wherry ? 
Salt water is his passport— is it not so .? 

AuCH. I would it could be otherwise ! 
Might he not go there while in life and 

limb, 
And breathe his span out in another air? 
Many seek Ulster never to return — 
Why might this wretched youth not har- 
bor there ? 
Phi. With all my heart. It is small 
honor to me 
To be the agent in a work like this.— 
Yet this poor caitiff, having thrust himself 
Into the secrets of a noble house. 
And twined himself so closely with our 

safety, 
That we must perish, or that he must die, 
I'll hesitate as little on the action, 
As I would do to slay the animal 
Whose flesh supplies my dinner. 'Tis as 

harmless. 
That deer or steer, as is this Quentin Blane, 
And not more necessary is its death 
To our accommodation — so we slay it 
Without a moment's pause or hesitation. 
AucH. 'Tis not, my son, the feeling call'd 
remorse. 
That now lies tugging at this heart of 

mine, 
Engendering thoughts that stop the lifted 

hand. 
Have 1 not heard John Knox pour iurth hi» 
thunders 



su 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Against the oppressor and the man of 

blood, 
In accents of a minister of vengeance? 
Were not his fiery eyeballs turn'd on me, , 
As if he said expressly, " Thou"rt the man? " 
Yet did my solid purpose, as I listen'd, 
Remain unshaken as that massive rock. 
Fhi. Well, then, I'll understand 'tis not 

remorse, — 
As 'tis a foible little known to thee, — 
That interrupts thy purpose. What, then, 

is It ? 
Is't scorn, or is't compassion ? One thing's 

certain, — 
Either the feeling must have free indul- 
gence, 
Or fully be subjected to your reason — 
There is no room for these same treach'- 

rous courses. 
Which men call moderate measures. 
We must confide in Quentin, or must slay 

him. 
AucH. In Ireland he might live afar 

from us. 
Phi. Among Queen Mary's faithful par- 
tisans. 
Your ancient enemies, the haughty Hamil- 

tons. 
The stem MacDonnells and resentful 

Graemes — 
With these around him, and with Cassilis' 

death 
Exasperating them against you, think, my 

father. 
What chance of Ouentin's silence. 

AucH. Too true— too true. He is a 

silly youth, too, 
Who had not wit to shift for his own 

livins; — 
A bashful lover, whom his rivals laugh'd 

at— 
Of pliant temper, which companions 

play'd on — 
A moonlight waker, and a noontide 

dreamer — 
A torturer of phrases into sonnets. 
Whom all might lead that chose to praise 

his rhymes. 
Phi. I marvel that your memory has 

room 
To hold so much on such a worthless 

subject. 
AucH. Base in himself, and yet so 

strangely link'd 
With me and wifcli my fortunes, that I've 

•tudied 



To read him through and through, as I 

would read 
Some paltry rhyme of vulgar prophecy, 
Said to contain the fortunes of my house ; 
And let me speak him truly — He is grateful. 
Kind, tractable, obedient — a child 
I Might lead him by a thread — He shall not 
I die! 

Phi. Indeed !— then have we had our 
midnight ride 
To wondrous little purpose. 

AucH. By the blue heaven, 

Thou shalt not murder him, cold, selfish 

sensualist ! 
Yon pure vault speaks it — yonder summer 

moon, 
With its ten million sparklers, cries. For- 
bear ! 
The deep earth sighs it forth— Thou shalt 

not murder ! 
Thou shalt not mar the image of thy maker i 
Thou shalt not from thy brother take the 

life, 
The gracious gift which God alone can give \ 
Phi. Here is a worthy guerdon now, for 
stuffing 
His memory with old saws and holy sayings I 
They come upon him in the very crisis. 
And when his resolution should be firmest, 
They shake it like a palsy. — Let it be, 
He'll end at last by yielding to temptation, 
Consenting to the thing which must be 
j done, 

! With more remorse the more he hcsi« 
j tates. — 

i ( To his Father, -who has stood fixed after 

his last speech) — 
' Well, sir, 'tis fitting you resolve at last, 
j How the young clerk should be disposed 
I upon ; 

I Unless you would ride home to Auchin- 
drane, 
And bid them rear the maiden in the 

court-yard. 
That when Dunbar comes, he have naught 

to do 
But bid us kiss the cushion and the heads- 
man. 
AucH. It is too true. — There is no 
safety for us, 
Consistent with the imhappy wretch's life I 
In Ireland he is sure to find my enemies. 
Arran I've proved— the Netherlands Pre 

tried. 
But wilds and wars return him on my 
hands. 



AUCHINDRANE. 



515 



Phi. Yet fear not, father, we'll make 
surer work ; 
The land has caves, the sea has whirlpools, 
Where that which they suck in returns no 
more. 
AucH. I will know naught of it, hard- 
hearted boy ! 
Phi. Hard-hearted! Why — my heart is 
soft as yours ; 
But then they must ;iot feel remorse at 

once — 
We can't afford such wasteful tenderness : . 
I can mouth forth remorse as well as you. 
Be executioner, and I'll be chaplain, 
And say as mild and moving things as you 

can ; 
But one of us must keep his steely temper. 
AucH. Efo thou the deed — I cannot 

look on it. 
Phi. So be it; Walk with me — Mac- 
Lellan brings him. 
The boat lies moor'd within that reach of 

rock, 
And 'twill require our greatest strength 

combined 
To launch it from the beach. Meantime, 

MacLcllan 
Brings our man hither. — See the twink- 
ling light 
That glances in the tower. 

AucH. Let us withdraw — for should he 
spy us suddenly, 
He may suspect us, and alarm the family. 
Phi. Fear not — MacLellan has his 
trust and confidence. 
Bought with a few sweet words and wel- 
comes home. 
AucH. But think you that the Ranger 

may be trusted ? 
Phi. I'll answer for him, — Let's go float 
the shallop. 

\They go off, and as they leave the 
Stage, MacLellan is seen de- 
scending from the Tower -with 
QuENTiN. The former bears a 
dark lantern. They come upon 
the Stage. 
Mac. ( showing the light ) — 
So — bravely done — that's the last ledge of 

rocks. 
And we are on the sands. — I have broke 

your slumbers 
Somewhat untimely. 

Que. Do not think so, friend. 

These six years past 1 have been used to 
stir 



When the reveille run^- ; and that, believe 
me. 

Chooses the hours for rousing me at ran- 
dom, 

And, having given its summons, yields no 
license 

To indulge a second slumber. Nay more, 
I'll tell thee. 

That, like a pleased child, I was e'en too 
happy 

For sound repose. 

Mac. The greater fool were you. 

Men should enjoy the moments given to 
slumber ; 

For who can tell how soon may be the 
waking. 

Or where we shall have leave to sleep 
again ? 
Que. The God of Slumber comes not 
at command. 

Last night the blood danced merry through 
my veins : 

Instead of finding this our land of Carrick 

The dreary waste my fears had appre- 
hended, 

I saw thy wife, MacLellan, and thy daugh- 
ter. 

And had a brother's welcome ; saw thee, 
too, 

Renew'd my early friendship with you 
both, 

And felt once more that I had friends and 
country. 

So keen the joy that tingled through my 
system, 

Join'd with the searching powers of yon- 
der wine, 

That 1 am glad to leave my feverish lair, 

Although my hostess smooth'd my couch 
herself. 

To cool my brow upon this moonliglt 
beach. 

Gaze on the moonlight dancing on the 
waves. 

Such scenes are wont to soothe me into 
melancholy ; 

But such the hurry of my spirits now. 

That everything I look on makes me laugh. 
Mac. I've seen but few so gamesome, 
Master Quentin, 

Being roused from sleep so suddenly as 
you were. 
Ouxi. Why, there's the jest on't. Your 
old castle's haunted. 

In vain the host — in vain the lovely hostess, 

In kind addition to all means of rest. 



5^6 



SCO TT 'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 



Add their best .wishes for our sound re- 
pose. 
When some hobgoblin brings a pressing 

message : 
Montgomery presently must see his ser- 
geant, 
And up gets Hildebrand, and off he trudges. 
I can't but laugh to think upon the grin 
With which he doff'd the kerchief he had 

twisted 
Around his brows, and put his morion on — 
Ha ! ha ! ha 1 ha ! 
Mac. I'm glad to see you merry, 

Quentin. 
Que, Why, faith, my spirits are but 
" transitory, 
And you may live with me a month or 

more, 
And never see me smile. Then some such 

trifle 
As yonder Httle maid of yours would laugh 

at, 
Will serve me for a theme of merriment^ 
i^ven now, I scarce can keep my gravity ; 
We were so snugly settled in our quarters, 
With full intent to let the sun be high 
Ere we should leave our' beds — and first 

the one 
And then the other's summon'd briefly 

forth 
To the old tune, " Black Bandsmen, up 

and march I " 
Mac. Well, you shall sleep anon — rely 

upon it — 
And make up time misspent. Meantime, 

methjnks, 
You are so merry on your broken slumbers, 
You ask'd not why I call'd you. 

Que. I can guess. 

You lack my aid to search the weir for 

seals, 
You lack m.y company to stalk a deer. 
Think you 1 have forgot your sylvan tPvsks, 
Which oft you have permitted me to share, 
Till days that we were rivals ? 

Mac. You have memory 

Of that too !— 

Que. Like the memory of a dream, 

Delusion far too exquisite to last, 

Mac. You guess not then for what I 

call you forth ! 
It was to meet a friend — 

Que. What friend.? Thyself excepted. 
The good old man who's gone to see 

Montgomery, 
And one to whom I once gave dearer title, 



I know not in wide Scotland man or I 
woman - 

Whom I could name a friend. 

Mac. Thou art mistaken. 

There is a Baron, and a powerful one- 

Que. There flies my fit of mirth. You 
have a grave 
And alter'd man before you. 
■ Mac Compose yourself, there is no cause 
for fear, — 
He will and must speak with you. 
Que. Spare me the meeting, Niel, — I can- 
not see him. 
Say, I'm just landed on my native earth; 
Say, that I will not cumber it a day ; 
Say, that my wretched thread of poor ex- 
istence 
Shall be drawn out in solitude ahd exile, 
Where never memory of so mean a thing 
Again shall cross his path — but do not ask 

me. 
To seek or speak again with that dark man! 
Mac. Your fears are now as foolish as 
your mirth — 
What should the powerful Knight of Au- 

chindrane 
In common have with such a man as thou ? 
Que. No matter what — Enough, I will 

not see him. 
Mac. He is thy master, and he claims 

obedience. 
Que. My master .' Ay, my task-master — 
Ever since 
I could write, man, his hand hath been 

upon me ; 
No step I've made but cumber'd with his 

chain. 
And I am weary on't — I will not see him. 
Mac. You must and shall — there is no 

remedy. 
Que, Take heed that you compel me not 
to find one. 
I've seen the wars since we had strife to- 
gether ; 
To put my late experience to the test 
Were something dangerous — Ha ! I am 
betray'd ! 

[ While the latter part of this dialogue 
is passing, Auchindrane and 
Philip enter on the Stage from be- 
hind and stiddenly present them- 
selves. 
AUCH. What says the runagate? 
Que. {Iayi7ig aside all appearance oj 
resistance) — 
Nothing, You are my fate ; 



A UCHINDRANE. 



517 



And in a shape more fearfully resistless 
My evil angel could not stand before me. 
AucH. And so you scruple, slave, at my 
command, 
To meet me when 1 deign to ask thy pres- 
ence ? 
Que. No, sir; I had forgot— I am j'our 
bond-slave ; 
But sure a passing thought of indepen- 
dence, 
For which I've seen whole nations doing 

battle, 
Was not, in one who has so long enjoyed 

it, 
A crime beyond forgiveness. 

AucH. We shall see: 

Thou wert my vassal, born upon my land, 
Bred by my bounty — It concern'd me 

highly, 
Thou know'st it did — and yet, against my 

charge. 
Again 1 find thy worthlessness in Scotland. 
Que. Alas ! the wealthy and the powerful 
know not 
How very dear to those who have least 

share in't 
Is tliat sweet word of country I The poor 

exile 
Feels^ in each action of the varied day, 
His doom of banishment. The very air 
Cools not his biow as m his native land ; 
The scene is strange, the food is loathly to 

him ; 
The language— nay, the music jars his ear. 
Why should 1, guiltless of the slightest 

crime, 
Suffer a punishment which, sparing life, 
Deprives that life of all which men hold 
dear? 
AucH. Hear ye the serf I bred begin to 
reckon 
Upon his rights and pleasures! Who am 

Thou abject, who am I, whose will thou 

thv.-artest t 
Phi. Well spoke, my pious sire. There 

goes remorse ! 
Let once thy precious pride take fire, and 

then, 
MacLellan, you and I may have small 

trouble. 
Que. Your words are deadly, and your 

power resistless ; 
I'm in your hands— but, surely, less than 

life 
May give you the security you seek, 



Without commission of a mortal crime. 
AucH. Who is't would deign to think 

upon thy life ? 
I but require of thee to speed to Ireland, 
Where thou may'st sojourn for some little 

space, 
Having due means of living dealt to thee. 
And, when it suits the changes of the times, 
Permission to return. 

Que. Noble my lord, 

I am too weak to combat with your pleas- 
ure; 
Yet O, for mercy's sake, and for the sake 
Of that dear land which is our common 

mother, 
Let me not part in darkness from my 

country ! 
Pass but an hour or two, and every cape, 
Headland, and bay, shall gleam with new« 

born light, 
And I'll take boat as gayly as the bird 
That soars to meet the morning. 
Grant me but this — to show no darker 

thoughts 
Are on your heart than those your speech 

expresses ! 
Phi. a modest favor, friend, is this you 

ask! 
Are we to pace the beach like watermen, 
Waiting your worship's pleasure to take 

boat ? 
No, by my faith ! you go upon the instant, 
The boat lies ready, and the ship receives 

j you 

1 Near to the Point of Turnberry. — Come, we 
i wait you ; 

' Bestir you ! 

Que. I obey.— Then farewell, Scotland I 
And Heaven forgive my sins, and grant that 

mercy 
Which mortal man deserves not ! 

Auch. {speaks aside to his Son) — What 
signal 
Shall let me know 'tis done ? 

Phi. When the light is quench'd, 

Your fears for Ouentin Blane are at an end. — 
{To Que.) Come, comrade, come, we must 
begin our voyage. 
Que. But when — O when to end it ! 

\He goes of reluctantly with Philip 
and MacLellan. AuchIn- 
DRANE stands looking after them. 
The Moo7i becomes overclouded^ 
and the Stage dark. Auchin- 
DRANE, who has gazed fixedly 
and eagerly after those who hav« 



5iS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



left the stage, becomes aitimated, 
and speaks. 
AucH. It is no fallacy ! — The night is 

dark, 
The moon has sunk before the deepening 

clouds ; 
I cannot on the murky beach distinguish 
The shallop from the rocks which lie be- 
side it ; 
I cannot see tall Philip's floating plume. 
Nor trace the sullen brow of Niel Mac- 

Lellan ; 
Yet still tiiat caitiff's visage is before me. 
With chattering teeth, mazed look, and 

bristling hair, 
As he stood here this moment ! — Have I 

changed 
My human eyes for those of some night 

prowler, 
The wolf's, the tiger-cat's, or the hoarse 

bird's 
That spies its prey at midnight? I can 

see him — 
Yes, I can see him, seeing no one else, — 
And well it is 1 do so. In his absence, 
Strange thoughts of pity mingled with my 

purpose. 
And r.:,oved remorse within me— But they 

vanish'd 
Whene'er he stood a living man before 

me ; 
Then my antipathy awaked within me. 
Seeing its object close within my reach, 
Till I could scarce forbear him. — How they 

linger ! 
The boat's not yet to sea ! — I ask myself, 
What has the poor wretch done to wake my 

hatred — 
Docile, obedient and in sufferance pa- 
tient !— 
As well demand what evil has the hare 
Done to the hound that courses her in sport. 
Instinct infallible supplies the reason — 
And that must plead my cause. — The 

vision's gone ! 
Their boat now walks the waves ; a single 

gleam, 
Now seen, now lost, is all that marks her 

course ; 
That soon shall vanish too — than all is 

over ! — 
Would it were o'er, for in this moment lies 
The agony of ages ; — Now, 'tis gone — 
And all is acted ! — No — she breasts again 
The opposing wave, and bears the tiny 

sparkle 



Upon her crest— (y? faint cry heard as 

from seaward:') 

Ah 1 there was fatal evidence. 
All's over now, indeed ! — The light is 

quench'd — 
And Ouentin, source of all my fear, exists 

not. — 
The morning tide shall sweep his corpse 

to sea. 
And hide all memory of this stern night's 

work, 

\^He walks in a slow attd deeply 
meditative manner towards the 
side of the Stage, and suddenly 
meets Marion the wife <?/ Mac- 
Lellan, who has descended from 
the Castle. 
Now, how to meet Dunbar — Heaven guard 

my senses ! 
Stand ! who goes there i* — Do spirits walk 

the earth 
Ere yet they've left the body ! 

Mar. Is it you, 

My lord, on this wild beach at such an 

hour ? 
AucH. It is MacLellan's wife, in search 

of him, 
Or of her lover — of the murderer. 
Or of the murder'd man. — Go to, Dame 

Marion ; 
Men have their hunting-gear to give an 

eye to. 
Their snares and trackings for their game. 

But women 
Should shun the night air. A young wife 

also, 
Still more a handsome one, should keep 

her pillow 
Till the sun gives example for her wakening. 
Come, Dame, go back— back to your bed 

again. 
Mar. Hear me, my lord! there have 

been sights and sounds 
That terrified my child and me — Groans, 

screams. 
As if of dying seamen, came from ocean — 
A corpse-light danced upon the crested 

waves 
For several minutes' space, then sunk at 

once. 
When we retired to rest we had two guests, 
Besides my husband Niel — I'll tell your 

lordship 

Who the men were 

AuCH. Pshaw, woman, can you think 
That I have any interest in your josses ? 



AUCHINDRANE. 



519 



Please your own husband, and that you 

may please him, 
Get thee to bed, and shut up doors, good 

dame. 
Were 1 MacLellan, I should scarce be 

satisfied 
To find thee wandering here in mist and 

moonlight, 
When silence should be in thy habitation. 
And sleep upon thy pillow. 

Mar. Good my lord, 

This is a holyday. — By an ancient custom 
Our children seek the shore at break of day, 
And gather shells, and dance, and play, and 

sport them 
In honor of the Ocean. Old men say 
The custom is derived from heathen times. 

Our Isabel 
Is mistress of the feast, and you may think 
She is awake already, and impatient 
To be the first shall stand upon the beach, 
And bid the sun good-morrow. 

AucH. Ay, indeed? 

Linger such dress of heathendom among 



you 



And hath Knox preach'd, and Wishart 

died, in vain ? 
Take notice, 1 forbid these sinful practices, 
And will not have my followers mingle in 

them. 
Mar. If such your honor's pleasure, I 

must go 
And lock the door on Isabel ; she is wilful, 
And voice of mine will have small force to 

keep her 
From the amusement she so long has 

dream'd of. 
But I must tell your honor, the old people, 
That were survivors of the former race. 
Prophesied evil if this day should pass 
Without due homage to the mighty Ocean. 
AucH. Folly and Papistry — Perhaps 

the Ocean 
Hath had his morning sacrifice already ; 
Or can you think the dreadful element. 
Whose frown is death, whose roar the 

dirge of navies, 
Will miss the idle pageant you prepare ?. 
I've business for you, too — the dawn ad- 
vances — 
I'd have thee lock thy little child in safety. 
And get to Auchmdrane before the sun rise ; 
Tell them to get a royal banquet ready, 
As if a king were coming there to feast him. 
Mar. I will obey your pleasure. But 

my husband 



AucH. I wait him on the beach, and 
bring him in 
To share the banquet. 

Mar. But he has a friend. 

Whom it would ill become him to intrude 
Upon your hospitality. 

AuCH. Fear not ; his friend shall be 
made welcome too. 
Should he return with Niel. 

Mar. He must — he will return — he has 

no option. 
AucH. {apart). Thus rashly do we deem 
of others' destiny — 
He has indeed no option — but he comes not. 
Begone on thy commission — I go this way 
To meet thy husband. 

[Marion goes to her Tower, and 
after entering it, is seen to come 
07it, lock the door, and leave the 
stage, as if to execute AucHlN- 
drane's commission. He, appar- 
ently going off in a different di- 
rection, has watched her from the 
side of the stage, and on her de- 
parture speaks. 
Aucii. Fare thee well, fond woman, 
Most dangerous of spies — thou prying, 

prating, 
Spying and telling woman 1 I've cut short 
■Thy dangerous testimony — Hated word ! 
What other evidence have we cut short, 
And by what fated means, this dreary 

morning ! — 
Bright lances here and helmets!— I must 

shift 
To join the others. \Exit. 

Enter from the other side the Sergeant, 
accompanied with an Officer and two 
Pikemen. 

Ser, 'Twas in good time you came; a 
minute later 
The knaves had ta'en my dollars and my life. 
Off. You fought most stoutly Two of 
them were down 
Ere we came to your aid. 

Ser. Gramercy, halberd ! 

And well it happens, since your leader seeks 
This Quentin Blane, that you have fall'n 

on me ; 
None else can surely tell you where he hides, 
Being in some fear, and bent to quit this 
province. 
Off. 'Twill do our Earl good service. 

He has sent 
Despatches into Holland for this Quentin. 



520 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ser. I left him two hours since in yonder 
tower, 

Under the guard of one who smoothly 
spoke, 

Although he look'd but roughly — I will 
chide him 

Forbidding me go forth with yonder trai- 
tor. 
Off. Assure yourself 'twas a concerted 
stratagem. 

Montgomery's been at Holyrcod for 
months, 

And can have sent no letter — 'twas a plan 

On you and on your dollars, and a base 
one. 

To which this Ranger was most likely 
privy 

Such men as he hang on our fiercer barons, 

The ready agents of their lawless will ; 

Boys of the belt, who aid their master's 
pleasures. 

And in his moods ne'er scruple his injunc- 
tions. 

But haste, for now we must unkennel 
Quentin , 

I've strictest charge concerning him. 
Ser, Go up, then, to the tower. 

You've younger limbs than mine ; there 
shall you find him 

Loimging and snoring, like a lazy cur 

Before a stable door ; it is his practice. 

[77/*? Officer goes up to the Towers 
and after knocking -without receiv- 
ing an answer^ turns the key "which 
Marion had left in the lock, and 
enters; Isabel, dressed as if for 
her da}tce, runs out and descetids to 
the Stage , the Officer follows. 

Off, There's no one in the house, this 
little maid 

Excepted 

ISA, And for me, I'm there no longer, 
And will not be again for three hours good ; 
I'm going to join my playmates on the 
sands. 
Off, {detaining her). You shall, when 
you have told to me distinctly 
Where are the guests who slept I'p there 
last night. 
IsA. Why, there is the old man, he stands 
beside you, [hair ; 

The merry old man "with the glistening 
He. left the tower at midnight, for my 

father 
Brought him a letter. 



Ser. In ill hour I left you, 

I wish to Heaven that I had stay'd with 

you 1 
There is a nameless horror that comes o'er 

me. — 
Speak, pretty maiden, tell us what chanced 

next. 
And thou shalt have thy freedom. 

IsA, After you went last night, my father 
Grew moody, and refused to doff his 

clothes, 
Or go to bed, as soinetimes he will do 
When there is aught to chafe him Until 

past midnight. 
He wander'd to .and fro, then call'd the 

stranger, 
The gay young man, that sung such merry 

songs. 
Yet ever look'd most sadly whilst he sung 

them ; 
And forth they went together. 

Off. And you've seen 

Or heard nought of them since ? 
IsA. Seen surely nothing, and I cannot 

think 
That they have lot or share in what I heard. 
I heard my mother praying, for the corpse- 
lights 
Were dancing on the waves; and at one 

o'clock. 
Just as the Abbey steeple toll'd the knell, 
There was a heavy plunge upon the waters, 
And some one cried aloud for mercy ! — 

mercy ! 
It was the water-spirit, sure, which prom- 
ised 
Mercy to boat and fishermen, if we 
Perform'd to day's rites duly. Let me go — 
I am to lead the ring. 
Off. (to Ser). Detain her not. She 

cannot tell us more ; 
To give her liberty is the sure way 
To lure her parents homeward. — Strahan, 

take two men, 
And should the father or the mother come, 
Arrest them both, or either. Auchindrane 
May come upon the beach ; arrest him 

also, 
But do not state a cause. I'll back again, 
And take directions from my Lord Dunbar. 
Keep you upon the beach, and have an eye 
To all that passes there. 

[Exeunt separately. 



A UCHINDRANE. 



521 



SCENE II. 

Scene changes to a remote and rocky fart 

of the Seabeach. 

Enter AucHlNDRANE, meeting Philip. 
AucH. The devil's brought his legions to 

this beach, 
That wont to be so lonely ; morions, lances. 
Show in the morning beam as thick as 

glowworms 
At summer midnight. 

Phi. I'm right glad to see them. 

Be they whoe'er they may, so they are 

mortal ; 
For I've contended with a lifeless foe. 
And I have lost the battle. I would give 
A thousand crowns to hear a mortal steel 
Ring on a mortal liarness. 
AucH. How now! art mad? or hast 

thou done the turn — 
The turn we came for, and must live or die 

by.' 
Phi. 'Tis done, if man can do itj but I 

doubt 
If this unhappy wretch have Heaven's per- 
mission 
To die by mortal hands. 
AucH. Where is he.'* — where's Mac- 

Lellan ? 
Phi. In the deep- 

Both m the deep, and what's immortal of 

them 
Gone to the judgment seat, where we must 

meet them. 
AucH. MacLellan dead, and Quentin 

too ? — So be it 
To all that menace ill to Auchindrane, 
Or have the power to injure ! — Thy words 
Are full of comfort, but thine eye and 

look 
Have in this pallid gloom a ghastliness, 
Which contradicts the tidings of thy 

tongue. 
Phi. Hear me, old man — There zs a 

heaven above us. 
As you have heard old Knox and Wishart 

preach. 
Though little to your boot. The dreaded 

witness 
Is slain, and silent. But his misused 

body 
Comes right ashore, as if to cry for verige- 

ance , 
It rides the waters like a living thing, 
Erect, as if he trode the waves which bear 

him. 



AucH. Thou speakest frenzy, whe« 

iense is most required. 
Phi. Hear me yet more ! — I say I did 

the deed 
With all the coolness of a practiced hunter 
When dealing with a stag. 1 struck him 

overboard, 
And with MacLellan's aid I held his head 
Under the waters, while the Ranger tied 
The weights we had provided to his feet. 
We cast him loose when life and bodr 

parted, 
And bid him speed for Ireland. But even 

then, 
As in defiance of the words we spoke, 
T!ie body rose upright behind our stern, 
One half in ocean, and one half in air, 
And tided after as in chase of us. 

AucH. It was enchantment! — Did you 

strike at it ? 
Phi. Once and again. But blows avail'd 

no more 
Than on a v/reath of smoke, where they 

may break 
The column for a moment, which unites 
And is entire again. Thus the dead body 
Sunk down before my oar, but rose ur> 

harm'd, 
And dogg'd us closer still, as in defiance. 

AucH. 'Twas HelFs own work ! 

Phi. MacLellan then grew restive 

And, desperate in his fear, blasphemed 

aloud, 
Cursing us both as authors cf his ruin. 
Myself w-as well-nigh frantic while pursued 
By this dread shape, upon whose ghastly 

features 
The changeful moonbeam spread a grisly 

light , 
And, baited thus, I took the nearest way 
To ensure his silence, and to quell his 

noise ; 
I used my dagger, and I flung him over- 
board, 
And half expected his dead carcass also 
Would join the chase— but he sank down at 

once. 
AucH. He had enough of mortal sin 

about him. 
To sink an argosy 

Phi. But now resolve you what defenc? 

to make, 
If Quentin's body shall be recognized; 
For 'tis ashore already ; and he bears 
Marks of my handiwork — so does Mac 

Lellan. 



522 



scorrs poetical works. 



AUCH. The concourse thickens still — 
Away, away ! 
We must avoid the multitude. 

\They rush out. 

SCKNE III. 



Scene changes to another part of the Beach ^ 
Children are seen dancing, and Vil- 
lagers looking on. Isabel seems to 
take the vianagernent of the Dance. 
ViL. WoM. How well she queens it, the 

brave little maiden ! 
ViL. Ay, they all queen it from their 
very cradle. 
These willing slaves of haughty Auchm- 

drane. 
But now I hear the old man's reign is 

ended ; — 
'Tis well — he has been tyrant long enough. 
Second Vil. Finlay, speak low — you 

interrupt the sports. 
Third Vil. Look out to sea — There's 
somethmg coming yonder, 
Bound for the beach, will scare us from 
our mirth. 
Fourth Vil. Pshaw! it is but a sea- 
gull on the wing, 
Between the wave and sky. 

Third Vil. Thou art a fool, 

Standing on solid land — 'tis a dead body. 
Second Vil. And if it be, he bears him 
like a live one, 
Not prone and weltering, like a drowned 

corpse. 
But bolt erect, as if he trode the waters. 
And used them as his path. 

Fourth Vil. It is a merman, 

And nothing of this earth, alive or dead 

\^By degrees all the Dancers break off 
from their sport, and stand gazi7ig 
to seaward, -while an object.^ im- 
perfectly seen, drifts towards the 
Beach, aitd at length arrives 
among the rocks -which border the 
tide. 
Third Vil. Perhaps it is some wretch 
who needs assistance ; 
Jasper, make in and see. 
' Second Vil. Not I, my friend ; 

^'en take the risk yourself, you'd put on 
others. 

[HiLDEBRAND has entered, ajid 
heard the t-wo last words. 
Ser. What, are you men ? 
Fear ye to look on what you must be one 
day? 



I, who have seen a thousand dead and 

dying 
Within a flight-shot square, will teach you 

how in war 
We look upon the corpse when life has 
left it. 

\^He goes to the back scene, and seems 
attempting to turn the body, which 
has come ashore with its face 
dowjiTvards. 
Will none of you come aid to turn the 
body ? 
IsA. You're cowards all. — I'll help thee, 
good old man. 

\_She goes to aid the Sergeant with 
the body, and presently gives a 
cry, and faints. HiLDEBRAND 
covies fonvard. All crowd round 
him , he speaks witii an expres- 
sion of horror. 
Ser. 'Tis Oucntin Blane 1 Poor youth, 
his gloomy bodings 
Have been tlie prologue to an act of dark- 
ness ; 
His feet are manacled, his bosom stabb'd. 
And he is foully murder'd. The proud 

Knight 
And his dark Ranger must have done this 

deed, 
For which no common ruffian could have 
motive. 
A Pea. Caution were best, old man — 
Tiiou art a stranger, 
The Knight is great and powerful. 

Ser. Let it be so. 

Call'd on by Heaven to stand forth au 

avenger, 
I will not blench for fear of mortal man. 
Have I not seen that when that innocent 
Had placed her hands upon the murder'd 

body, 
His gaping wounds, that erst were soak'd 

with brine, 
Burst forth with blood pc- ruddy as the cloud 
Which nov/ the sun d( th r se on ! 

Pea. V/hat of that? 

Ser. Nothing that can affect the inno- 
cent child, 
But murder's guilt attaching to her father, 
Since the blood musters in the victim's 

veins 
At the approach of what holds lease from 

him 
Of all that parents can transmit to children. 
And here comesi one to whom I'll vouch 
the circumstance. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



523 



The Earl of Dunbar enters with Sol- 
diers and others, having AuCHIN- 
DRANE and Fhilif prisoners. 

Dun. Fetter the young ruffian and his 

trait'rous father ! 

[ T/iey are made secure. 
AucH. 'Twas a lord spoke it — I have 

known a knight, 
Sir George of Home, who had not dared 

to say so. 
Dun. -Tis Heaven, not I, decides upon 

your guilt. 
A harmless youth is traced within your 

power. 
Sleeps m your Ranger's house — his friend 

at midnight 
Is spirited away. Then lights ace seen, 
And groans are heard, and corpses come 

ashore 
Mangled with daggers, while {to Phi.) 

your dagger wears 
The sanguine livery of recent slaughter . 
Here, too, the body of a murder'd victim 



(Whom none but you had interest to re- 

move), 
Bleeds on a child's approach, becaus* 

the daughter 
Of one the abettor of the wicked deed;-^ 
All this, and other proofs corroborative, 
Call on us briefly to pronounce the doom 
We have in charge to utter. 

AucK, If my house perish. Heaven's 

will be done i 
I wish not to survive it ; but, O Philip, 
Would one could pay the ransom for us 

both. 
Phi Father, 'tis fitter that we both 

should die. 
Leaving no heir behind — The piety 
Of a bless'd saint, the morals of an 

anchorite, 
Could not atone thy dark hypocrisy. 
Or the wild profligacy I have practiced. 
Ruin'd our house, and shatter'd be our 

towers, 
And with them end the curse our sins hav« 

merited 1 



THE 



DOOM OF DEVORGOIL 



|rHaa. 



The first of these dramatic pieces was long since written, for the purpose cf obhging the lata 
Mr. Terry, then manager of the Adelphi Theatre, for whom the Author had a particular regard. 
The manner in which the mimic goblins of Devorgoil are intermixed with the supernatural 
machinery, was found to be obiecticmable, and the production liad other faults, which rendered 
it unfit for representation. 1 have called the piece a Melo-drama, for want of a better name ; but, 
as I learn from the unquestionable authority of Mr. Colman's Random Records, that one species 
of the drama is termed an extravaganza, I am sorry I was not sooner aware of a more appro- 
priate name than that which I had selected for Devorgoil. 

The Author's Publishers thought it desirable, that the scenes, long condemned too blivion, 
should be united to similar attempts of the same kind ; and as he felt indifferent on the subject, 
they are printed in the same volume with Halidon Hill and Macduff's Cross, and thrown off in 
a separate form, for the convenience of those who possess former editions of the Authors 
Poetical Works. 

The general story of the Doom of Devorgoil is founded on an old Scottish tradition, the scene 
of which lies in Galloway. The crime supposed to have occasioned the misfortunes of this de- 
voted house, is similar to that of a Lord Herriesof Hoddam Castle, who is the principal person- 
age of Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe's interesting ballad, in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
Border, vol. iv. p. 307. In remorse for his crime, he built the singular monument called the 
tower of Repentance. In many cases the Scottish superstitions allude to the fairies, or those 
who, for sins of a milder description, are permitted to wander with the " rout that never rest," as 
they were tern.ed by Dr. Leyden. They imitate liuman labor ar.d human amusements, but 



524 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



their toil is useless, and without any advantageous result : and their gayety is unsubstantial an4 
hoUov/. The phantom of Lord Erick is supposed to be a spectre of this character. 

The story of the Ghostly Barber is told in many countries : but the best narrative founded on 
the passage, is the tale called Stumme Liebe, among the legends of Mus^us. I think it has been 
introduced upon the English stage in some pantomime, which was one objection to bringiug U 
upon the scene a second time. 
Abbotsford, April 1830. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Oswald of Devorgoil, a decayed Scottish Baron, 

Leonard, a Ranger. 

DuRWARD, a Pahner. 

Lancelot Blackthorn, a Companion of Leonard, in love with Katleetu 

GuLLCRAMMER, a co7iceited S tudent. 

^ZrlV^^^TJ-l'"^ \ Maskers, represented By Blackthorn and Flora. 
Spirit of Lord Ericv: of Devorgoil. 
Feasants, Shepherds, and J'assals cf in/erior rank. 
Eleanor, IVife of Oswald, descended jf obscure Farentage. 
Flora, Daughter of Os'ujald. 
Katleen, Niece of Eleanor, 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



ACT L— Scene I. 

The Scene represents a wild and hilly, 
but not a tnountainous Country in a 
frontier district of Scotland. The flat 
scene exhibits the Castle of Devorgoil, 
decayed^ and fartly ruinous, situated 
upon a Lake, and conttected with the 
land by a Drawbridge^ which is lowered. 
Time — Sunset. 

Flora enters from the Castle, looks 
timidly around, then comes forward 
and speaks. 
He is not here — those pleasures are not 

ours 
Which placid evening brings to all things 
else. 

SONG. 

The sun upon the lake is low, 

The wild birds hush their song, 
The hiUs have evening's deepest glow, 

Yet Leonard tarries long 
Njw all whom varied toil and care 

From home and love divide, 
^ the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the luved one'a :udo. 



The noble dame, on turret high, 
Who waits her gallant knight. 

Looks to the western beam to spy 
The flash of armor bright. 

The village maid, with hand on brow, 
I The level ray to shade, 

Upon the footpath watches now 
For Colin's darkening plaid. 

Now to their mates the wild swans row-.. 

By day they swam apart ; — 
And to the thicket wanders slow 

The hind beside the hart. 
The woodlark at his partner's side. 

Twitters his closing song — 
All meet whom day and care divide, 

But Leonard tarries long. 

[Katleen has come out of the 
Castle while Flora was sing- 
ing, and speaks when the Song is 
ended. 
Kat Ah, my dear coz !— if that your 
mother's niece 
May so presume to call your father's 

daughter- 
All these fond things have got some homt 
of comfort 



77/^5" DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



525 



To tempt the rovers back— the lady's 

bower, 
The shepherdess's hut, tlie wild swan's 

couch 
Among the rushes, even the lark's low 

nest, 
Has that of promise which lures home a 

lover, — 
But we have nought of this. 

Flo. How call you, then, this castle of 

my s\re, 
The towers of Devor^oil ? 

Kat Dungeons for men, and palaces 

for owls ; 
Yet no wise owl would change a farmer's 

barn 
For yonder hungry hall — our latest mouse, 
Our last of mice, I tell you, has been found 
Starved m the pantry ; and the reverend 

spider, 
Sole living tenant of the Baron's halls, 
Who, train'd to abstinence, lived a whole 

summer 
Upon a smgle fly, he's famish'd too ; 
The cat is in the kitchen-chimney, seated 
Upon our last of fagots, destined soon 
To dress our last of suppers, and, poor 

soul, 
Is starved with cold, and mewling mad 

with hunger. 
Flo. D'ye mock our misery, Katleen? 
Kat. No, but I am hysteric on the 

subject. 
So I must laugh or cry, and laughing's 

lightest. 
Flo. Why stay you with us, then, my 

merry cousin ? 
From you my sire can ask no filial duty. 

Kat. No, thanks to Heaven ! 
No Noble in wide Scotland, rich or poor, 
Can claim an interest in the vulgar blood 
That dances in my veins ; and I might wed 
A forester to-morrow, nothing fearing 
The wrath of high-born kindred, and far 

.less 
That the dry bones of lead-lapp'd ancestors 
Would clatter m their cerements at the 

tidings. 
Flo. My mother, too, would gladly see 

you placed 
Beyond the verge of our unhappiness. 
Which, like a witch's circle, blights and 

taints 
Whatever com»s within it. 

Kat. Ah 1 my good aunt ! 

She is a careful kinswoman, and prudent 



In all but marrying a ruin'd baron, 

When she could take her choice of honest 

yeomen ; 
And now, to balance this ambitious error. 
She presses on her daughter's love the suit 
Of one who hath no touch of nobleness 
In manners, birth, or mind, to recommend 

liim,— 
Sage Master Gullcrammer, the new-dubb'd 

preacher. 
Flo. Do not name him, Katleen ! 
Kat. Ay, but I must, and with some 

gratitude 
I said but now, I saw our last of fagots 
Destined to diess our last of meals, but 

said not 
That the repast consisted of choice 

dainties. 
Sent to our larder by that liberal suitor, 
The kind Melchisedek 

Flo. Were famishing the word 

I'd famish ere I tasted them —the fop. 
The fool, the low-born, low-bred, pedant 

coxcomb ! 
Kat. There spoke the blood of long- 
descended sires ! 
My cottage wisdom ought to echo back,— 

the snug parsonage ! the well-paid 

stipend ! 
The yew-hedged garden ! bee-hives, pigs, 

and poultry ! 
But, to speak honestly, the peasant Kat- 
leen, 
Valuing these good things justly, still 

would scorn 
To wed, for such, the paltry Gullcrammer, 
A* much as Lady Flora. 

Flo. Mock me not with a title, gentlg 

cousin. 
Which poverty has made ridiculous. — 

[ T7-nmpets far off. 
Hark ! they have broken up the weapon- 

shawing ; 
The vassals are dismiss'd, and marching 

homeward. 
Kat. Comes your sire back to-night ? 
Flo. He did propose 

To tarry for the banquet. This day only, 
Summon'd as a king's tenant, he resumes 
The right of rank his birth assigns to him. 
And mingles with the proudest. 

Kat. To return 

To his domestic wretchedness to-morrow — 

1 envy not the p'ivilege. Let us go 
To yonder height, and see the marksmen 

practice ; 



526 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



They shoot their match down in the dale 
beyond, 

Betwixt the Lowland and the Forest dis- 
trict, 

By ancient custom, for a tun of wine, 

Let us go and see which wins. 

Flo That were too forward. 

Kat. Why, you may drop the screen 
before your face, 

Which some chance breeze may happily blow 
aside 

Just when a youth of special note takes 
aim. 

It chanced even so that memorable morn- 
ing, 

When, nutting in the woods, we met young 
Leonard , — 

And m good time here comes his sturdy 
comrade, 

The rough Lance Blackthorn. 

j 

Enter Lancelot Blackthorn, a j 

Forester, ■with the Carcass of a Deer \ 

on Ins dack, and a Gun in his hand. \ 

Bla. Save you, damsels ! 

Kat. Godden, good yeoman. — Come you 

from the Weaponshaw > 
Bla. Not I, indeed ; there lies the mark 
I shot at. 

\Lays down the Deer. 
The time has been I had not miss'd the 

sport, 
Although Lord Nithsdale's self had wanted 

venison ; 
But this same mate of mine, young Leonard 

Dacre, 
Makes me do what he lists ; — he'll win the 

prize, though 
The Forest district will not lose its honor. 
And that is all I care for — {some shouts are 

heard). Hark ! they're at it. 
ril go sec the issue. 

Flo. Leave not here 

The produce of your hunting. 

Bla. But I must, though. 

This is his lair to-night, for Leonard Dacre 
Charged me to leave the stag at Devor- 

goii: 
Then show me quickly where to stow the 

quarry, 
And let me tc the sports — [more shots) 

Come., hasten damsels ! 
, Flo It is impossible — we dare not take it. 
Bla There let it lie, then, and I'll wind 
my bugie, 



That all within these tottering walls may 

know 
That here lies venison, whoso likes to lift 
it. [Abont to blow. 

Kat {to Flo.) He will alarm your 
mother ; and, besides, 
Our Forest proverb teaches, that no ques- 
tion 
Should ask where venison comes from 
Your careful mother, with her wonted pru- 
dence. 
Will hold its presence, plead its own apol 

ogy.— 
Come, Blackthorn, I will show you whej-e 
to stow it. 

[Exeunt Katlf.en and Black- 
thorn into the Castle — more 
shooting — then a distant shout — 
Stragglers, armed in different 
ways, pass over the stage, as if 
from the Weaponshaw. 
Flo, The prize is won ; that general 
shout proclaim'd it. 
The n,arksmen and the vassals are dispers- 
ing. [She draws back. 
First Vassal {a feasant). Ay, ay, — 
'tis lost and won,— the Forest have it. 
'Tis they have all the hick on't. 
Second Vas. {a shepherd). Luck 
say'st thou, man ? 'Tis patience, ski:ll, 
and cunning. 
Third Vas. 'Tis no such thing.— I 
had hit the mark precisely, 
But for this cursed flint ; and as I fired, 
A swallow cross'dmine eye too — Will you 

tell me 
That that was but a chance, mine honest 
shepherd f 
First Vas. Ay, and last year, when 
Lancelot Blacktl]orn won it. 
Because my powder ^f^^pen'd to be damp, 
) Was there no luck in that ?— The worse luck 
I mine. 

Sec. Vas. Still I say, 'twas not chance ; 

it might be witchcraft. 
First Vas. Faith, not unlikely, neigh- 
bors ; for these foresters 
I Do often haunt about this ruin'd castle. 
j I've seen myself this spark, — Young Leon 
I ard Dacre, — 

Come stealing like a ghost ere break of 

day. 
And after sunset, too, along this path ; 
And well you know the haunted towers ei 

Devorgoil 
Have no good reputation in the land 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



527 



Shep. That have they not. I've heard 
my father say, 
Ghosts dance as lightly in its moonliglit 

halls, 
As ever maiden did at Midsummer 
Upon \\\z village-green. 

First Vas. Those that frequent such 
spirit-haunted ruins 
Must needs know more than simple Chris- 
tians do, — 
See, Lance this blessed moment leaves the 

castle, j 

And comes to triumph o'er us. | 

[Blackthorn enters from the Cas- j 
tie, and comes forward while they \ 
speak. 
Third Vas. A mighty triumph ! What 
is't after all, 
Except the driving of a piece of lead. — 
As learned Master Gullcrammer defined 

It,— 

Just through the middle of a painted board ? 

Black. And if he so define it, by your 

leave, 

Your learned Master Gullcrammer's an ass. 

Third Vas. {nnt^nly). He is a preacher, 

huntsman, under favor. 
Sec. Vas. No quarrelling, neighbors — 
you may both be right. 



Enter a Fourth Vassal, with a gallon 
stoup of wine. 

Fourth Vas. Why stand you -brawling 
here ? Young Leonard Dacre 

Has set abroach the tun of wine he gain'd 

That all may drink who list. Blackthorn, 
I sought you ; 

Your comrade prays you will bestow this 
fiagon 

Where you have left the deer you kill'd this 
morning. 
Black. And that I will ; but first we will 
take toll 

vTo see if it's worth carriage. Shepherd, 
thy horn. 

'There must be due allowance made for leak- 
age, 

And that will come about a draught apiece. 

Skink it about, and, when our throats are 
li'jUor'd, 

We'll merrily trowl our song of Weapon- 
shaw. 

[ They drink about out of the Shep- 
herd's horn^ and then stng. 



We lOve the shrill trumpet, we love th? 

drum's rattle, 
They call us to sport, and they call us to 

battle ; 
And old Scotland shall laugh at the threats 

of a stranger. 
While our comrades in pastime are com. 

rades in danger. 
If there's mirth in our house, 'tis our neigh. 

bor that shares it — 
If peril approach, 'tis our neighbor that 

dares it ; 
And when we lead off to the pipe and th» 

tabor,. 
The fair hand we press is the hand of a 

neighbor 
Then close your ranks, comrades — the bands 

that combine them. 
Faith, friendship, and brotherhood, join'd 

to entwine them ; 
And we'll laugh at the threats of each in- 

Solent stranger, 
While our comrades in sport are our com- 
rades in danger. 
Black. Well, I must do mine errand, 
Master flagon [Shaking it. 

Is too consumptive for another bleeding. 
She p. I must to my fold. 
Third Vas. I'll to the butt of wine. 
And see if that has given up the ghost 
yet. 
First Vas. Have with you, neighbor. 
[Blackthorn enters the Castle, 
the rest cxeujtt severally. Mel- 
CHiSEDEK Gullcrammer 
watches them off the stage, ard 
then enters from the side-seem:. 
His costntne is a Geneva cloak 
and band, tvith a Jiigh-crowned 
hat : the rest of his dress tn the 
fashion of James the First's time. 
He looks to the windows of the 
Castle, theji draws back as if to 
escape observation, while he brushes 
his cloak, drives the white threads 
from his waistcoat with his tvetted 
thumb, a7td dusts his shoes, all 
with the air of one who would not 
willingly be observed engaged in 
these offices. He then adjusts his 
collar and band, comes forward 
and speaks. 
Gull. Right comely is thy garb, Mel- 
chisedek ; 



528 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS, 



As well beseemeth one, whom good Saint 

Mungo, 
The patron of o ir land and university, 
Hath graced with license both to teach and 

preach — 
Who dare opine thou liither plod'st on 

foot ? 
Trim sits thy c'loak, r.nniffied is thy band, 
And not a speck upon thine outward man 
Bewrays the labors of thy weary sole. 

[ Tnnclies his shoe, and smiles com- 
placently 
Quaint was that jest and pleasant ! — Now 

will I 
Approach and hail the dwellers of this fort ; 
But specially sweet Flora Devorgoil, 
Ere her proud sire return. He loves me 

not, 
Mocketh my lineage, flouts at mine ad- 
vancement — 
Sour as the fruit the crab-tree furnishes, 
And hard as is the cudgel it supplies j 
But Flora — she's a lily on the lake. 
And I must reach her, though I risk a 
ducking. 

[^i.GuM.CRAMMER moves towards 
the drawbridge, Bauldie Dur- 
WARD enters, and interposes him- 
self betwixt him and the Castle. 
Gu LLC RAMMER stops and speaks. 
Whom have we here.?— that ancient for 

tune-teller. 
Papist and sorcerer, and sturdy beggar. 
Old Bauldie Durward I Would I were well 
past him ! 

[Durward advances, partly in the 

dress of a palmer, partly in that 

of an old Scottish mendicant, 

having coarse blue cloak and 

badge, -white beard, ^'c. 

DuR. The blessing of the evening on 

your worship, 

And on your taff'ty doublet. Much I 

marvel 
Your wisdom chooseth such grim garb, 

when tempests 
Are gathering to the bursting. 

Gullcrammer i^looks to his dress., and 
then to the sky, with some appre- 
hension). Surely, Bauldie, 
Thou dost belie the evening — in the west 
The light sinks down as lovely as this band 
Drops" o'er this mantle— Tush, man ! 'twill 
be fair. 
Dur Ay, but the storm I bode is brig 
with blows, 



Horsewhips for hailstones, clubs for 
thunderbolts ; 

And for the wailing of the midnight wind, 

The unpitied howling of a cudgell'd coX" 
comb, 

Come, come, I know thou seek'st fair 
Flora Devorgoil. 
GuL. And if I did, I do the damsel 
grace. 

Her mother thinks so, and she has ac- 
cepted 

At these poor hands gifts of some conse- 
quence, 

And curious dainties for the evening cheer, 

To which J am invited — she respects me. 
Dur. But n t so doth her father, 
haughty Oswald. 

Bethink thee, he's a baron 

GuL. And a bare one ; 

Construe me that, eld man ! — The crofts 
of INIucklewhame— 

Destined for mine so soon as heaven and 
earth 

Have shared my uncle's soul and bones 
between them— 

The crofts of Mucklewhame, old man, 
which nourish 

Three scores of sheep, three cows, with 
each her follower, 

A female palfrey eke — I will be candid, 

She is of that meek tribe whom, in derision, 

Our wealthy southern neighbors nickname 

donkeys 

Dur. She hath her follower too, — when 

thou- art there. 
GuL. I say to thee, these crofts of 
Mucklewhams, 

In the mere tything of their stock and pro- 
duce. 

Outvie whatever patch of land remains 

To this old rugged castle and its owner. 

Well, therefore, may Melchisedek Gull- 
crammer [me. 

Younger of Mucklewhame, for such I write 

Master of Arts, by grace of good Saint 
Andrew, 

Preacher, in brief expectance of a kirk, 

Endow'd with ten score Scottish pounds 
per annum, 

Being eight pounds seventeen eight in 
sterling coin — 

Well then, I say, may this Melchisedek, 

Thus higlily graced by fortune — and by 
nature 

E'en gifted as thou seest — aspire to woo 

The daughter of the beggar 'd DevorgoiL 



THE nOOM OF DEVORGOIL, 



529 



DuR. Credit an old man's word, kind 

Master GuUcrammer, 
You will not find it so. — Come, Sir, I've 

known 
The liospitality of Mucklewhame ; 
It reacli'd not to profuseness — yet, in 

gratitude 
For the pure water of its living well, 
And for the Barley loaves of its fair fields, 
Wherein chopp'd straw contended with 

the grain 
Which best should satisfy the appetite, 
I would not see the hopeful heu" of Muck- 
lewhame 
Thus fling himself in danger. 

GuL. Danger! what Danger !—Know'st 
thou not old Oswald 
This day attends the muster of the shire. 
Where the crown-vassals meet to show 

their arms, 
And tlieir best horse of service ? 'Twas 

good sport 
(And if a man had dared but laugh at it) 
To see old Oswald with his rusty morion, 
And huge two-handed sword, that might 

have see 
The field of Bannockburn or Chevy-Chase, 
Without a squire or vassal, page or groom, 
Or e'en a single pikeman at his heels, 
Mix with the proudest nobles of the county. 
And claim precedence for his tatter'd per- 
son 
O'er armors double gilt and ostrich-plum- 
age. 

DuR. Ay ! 'twas the jest at which fools 

laugh the loudest, 
The downfall of our old nobility — 
Which may forerun the ruin of a king- 
dom. 
I've seen an idiot clap his hands, and 

shout 
To see a tower like you {points to a part 

of the Castle) stoop to its base 
In headlong ruin ; while the wise look'd 

round, 
And fearful sought a distant stance to 

watch 
What fragment of the fabric next should 

follow ; 
For when the turrets fall, the walls are 

tottering . 
GuL. (after pondering). If that means 

aught, It means thou saw'st old 

Oswald 
Expell'd from the assembly. 



DuR. Thy sharp wit 

Hath glanced unwittingly right nigh tlie 
truth. 

Expell'd he was not, but, his claim 'de- 
nied 

At some contested point of ceremonj', 

He left the weaponshaw in high displeas- 
ure, 

And hither comes— his wonted bitter tem- 
per 

Scarce sweeten'd by the chances of the 
day. 

'Twere mirch like rashness should you 
wait his coming. 

And thither tends my counsel. 

GuL. And I'll take it ; 

Cood Bauldie Durward, I will take thy 
counsel, 

And will requite it with this minted farth- 
ing, 

That bears our sovereign's head in purest 
copper. 
DuR. Thanks to thy bounty— Haste 
thee, good young master ; 

Oswald, besides the old two-handed sword, 

Bears in his hand a staff of potency, 

To -charm intruders from his castle pur- 
lieus. 
GuL. I do abhor all charms, nor will 
abide 

To hear or see, far less to feel their use. 

Behold, 1 have departed {Exit hastily. 

Manet Durward. 

DuR. Thus do 1 play the idle part of 

one 
Who seeks to save the moth from scorching 

him 
In the bright taper's flame — and Flora's 

beauty 
Must, not unlike that taper, waste away, 
Guilding the rugged walls that saw it kin- 
dled. 
This was a shard -born, beetle, heavy, 

drossy, 
Though boasting his dull drone and guilded 

wing. 
Here comes a flutterer of another stamp, 
Whom the same ray is charming to his 

ruin. 

Enter Leonard, dressed as a htintsman : 
he pause before the Tower, atid ivhis- 
ties a note or two at internals — drawing 
back, as if fearful of observation — yet 
waiting as zj expecting some reply^-' 



530 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



DuRWARD, ivhotn he had not observed^ 
moves round, so as to front Leonard 

U7iex/>eciedly. 

Leon. I am too late — it was no easy 
task 
To rid myself from yonder noisy revellers, 
flora !— I fear she's angry — Flora — Flora 1 

SONG. 

Admire not that I gain'd the prize 

From all the village crew ; 
How could I fail with hand or eyes, 

When heart and faith were true ! 

And when in floods of rosy wine 
My comrades drown'd their cares, 

I tliought but that thy heart was mine, 
My own leapt light as theirs. 

My brief delay then do not blame, 
Nor deem your swain untrue ; 

My form but linger'd at the game, 
My soul was still with you. 

She hears not ! 

DuR. But a friend hath heard — Leon- 
ard, 1 pity thee. 
Leon, {starts, but recovers himself). 

Pity, good father, is for those in want, 
In age, in sorrow, in distress of mind, 
Or agony of body. I'm in health — 
Can match my limbs against the stag in 

chase. 
Have means enough to meet my simple 

wants, 
And am so free of soul that I can carol 
To woodland and to wild in notes as lively 
As are my jolly bugle's. 

DuR. Even therefore dost thou need my 

pity, Leonard, 
And therefore 1 bestow it, praying thee, 
Before thou feel'st the need, my mite of 

pity. 
Leonard, thou lovest ; and in that little 

word 
There lies enough to claim the sympathy 
Of men who wear such hoary locks as mine. 
And know what misplaced love is sure to 

end in. 
Leon. Good father, thou art old, and 

even thy youth, 
As thou hast told me, spent in cloister'd 

cells. 
Fits thee but ill to judge the passions 
Which are the joy and charm of social life. 
Press me no farther, then, nor waste those 

moments 



Whose worth thou canst not estimate. 

[^As iuryiiiig from him. 

DuR. {detains htm). Stay, young man ! 

'Tis seldom that a beggar claims a debt; 

Yet I bethink me of a gay young stripling, 

That owes to these white locks and hoary 

beard 
Son-fething of reverence and of gratitude 
More than he wills to pay. 
Leon. Forgive me, father. Often hast 
thou told me, 
That in the rum of my father's house 
You saved the orphan Leonard in his 

cradle ; 
And well I know, that to thy care alone — 
Care seconded by means beyond thy seem- 
ing — 
I owe whate'er of nurture I can boast. 

DuR. Then for thy life preserved, 
And for tiie means of knowledge I have 

furnish'd 
(Which lacking, man is levell'd with the 

brutes). 
Grant me this boon : — Avoid these fated 

walls 1 
A curse is on them, bitter, deep, and 

heavy. 
Of power to split the massiest tower they 

boast 
From pinnacle to dungeon vault. It rose 
Upon the gay horizon of proud Devorgoil, 
As unregarded as the fleecy cloud, 
The first forerunner of the hurricane, 
Scarce seen amid the welkin's shadeless 

blue, 
Dark grew it, and more dark, and still the 

fortunes 
Of this doom'd family have darken'd with 

it. 
It hid their sovereign's favor, and obscured 
The lustre of their service, gender'd hate 
Betwixt them and the mighty of the land ; 
Till by degrees the waxing tempest rose, 
And stripp'd the goodly tree of fiuit and 

flowers, 
And buds, and boughs, and branches. 

There remains 
A rugged trunk, dismember'd and un- 
sightly, 
Waiting the bursting of the final bolt 
To splinter it to shivers. Now, go pluck 
Its single tendril to enwreath thy brow. 
And rest beneath its shade— to share the 
ruin • 
Leon. This anathema. 
Whence should it come ? — Hqw merited ? 
and when ? 



THE DOOM OF DEVCRGOIL. 



531 



DuR. 'Twas in the days 

Of Oswald's grandsire, — 'mid Galwegian 
chiefs 

The fellest foe, the fiercest champion. 

His blood-red pennons scared the Cum 
brian coasts, 

And wasted towns and manors mark'd his 
progress. 

His galleys stored with treasure, and their 
decks 

Crowded with English captives, who be- 
held, 

With weeping eyes, their native shores re- 
tire, 

He bore him homeward ; but a tempest 

rose I 

Leon. So far I've heard the tale, i 

And spare thee the recital,— The grim \ 
chief, I 

Marking his vessels labor on the sea, 

And loth to lose his treasure, gave com 
mand 

To plunge his captives in the raging deep. 
DuR. There sunk the lineage of a noble 
name, 

And the wild waves boom'd over sire and 
son, 

Mother and nursling, of the House of 
Aglionby, 

Leaving but one frail tendril. — Hence the 
fate 

That hovers o'er these turrets, — hence the 
peasant. 

Belated, hying homewards, dreads to cast 

A glance upon that portal, lest he see 

The unshrouded spectres of the murder'd 
dead ; 

Or the avenging Angel, with his sword. 

Waving destruction ; or the grisly phan- 
tom 

Of that fell Chief, the doer of the deed. 

Which still, they say, roams through his 
empty halls, 

And mourns their wasteness and their 
lonelihood. 
Leon. Such is the dotage 

Of superstition, father, — ay, and the cant 

Of hoodwink'd prejudice. Not for atone- 
ment 

Of some foul deed done in the ancient war- 
fare. 

When war was butchery, and men were 
wolves. 

Doth Heaven consign the innocent to suf 
fering. 

I tell thee, Flora's virtues might atone 



For all the massacres her sires have done 
Since first the Fictish race their stained 

hmbs 
Array'd in wolf's skin 

DuR. Leonard, ere yet this beggar's 

scrip and cloak 
Supplied the place of mitre and of crosier, 
Winch in these alter'd lands must not be 

wotn, 
1 was superior of a brotherhood 
Of holy men, — the Prior of Lanercost. 
Nobles then sought my footstool many a 

league. 
There to unload their sins — questions of 

conscience 
Of deepest import were not deem'd too nice 
For my decision, youth. But not even then, 
With mitre on my brow, and all the voice 
Which Rome gives to a father of her cliurch, 
Dared J pronounce so boldly on the ways 
Of hidden Providence, as thou, young man, 
Whose chiefest knowledge is to track a 

stag. 
Or wind a bugle, hast presumed to do. 

Leon. Nay, I pray forgive me. 
Father ; thou know'st 1 meant not to pre- 
sume 

D u R. Can I refuse thee pardon ?— Thou 

art all 
That war and change have left to the poor 

Durward 
Thy father, too, who lost his life and for- 
tune 
Defending Lanercost, when its fair aisles 
Were spoil'd by sacrilege — I bless'd his 

banner, 
And yet it prosper'd not. But — all I 

could— 
Thee from the wreck I saved, and for thy 

sake 
Have still dragg'd on my life of pilgrimage 
And penitence upon the hated shores 
1 else had left forever Come with me. 
And I will teach thee there is healing in 
The wounds which friendship gives. 

\fixeiint. 

Scene H. 
The Scene changes to the Interior of the 
Castle. An apartmejtt ts discovered, in 
which there is much appearance of pres- 
ent poverty^ mixed with some relics oj 
former grandeur. On the wall hangs^ 
amongst other things, a suit of ancient 
armor : by the table is a covered basket ; 
behind, and concealed by tt, the carcasi 



532 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



of a roe-deer. There is a small latticed 
window^ which, appearing to perforate 
a wall of great thickness, is supposed to 
look out towards the drawbridge. It is 
in the shape of a loop-liole for musketry; 
and, as is not unusual in old buildings, 
is placed so high up in the wall, that it 
is 07ily approached by five or six narrow 
stone steps, 

Eleanor, the wife <?/ Oswald ct/Devor- 
GOiL, Flora and Katleen, her 
Daughter and. Niece, are discovered at 
work The former spins, the latter are 
embroidering. Eleanor quits her own 
labor to examine the manner in which 
Flora is executing her task, and shakes 
her head as if dissatisfied. 

Ele. Fy on it, Flora ! — this botch'd 
work of thine 
Shows that thy mind is distant from thy 

task. 
The finest tracery of our old cathedral 
Had not a richer, freer, bolder pattern, 
Than Flora once could trace. Thy thoughts 
are wandering. 
Flo They're with my father. Broad 
upon the lake 
The evening sun sunk down ; huge piles of 

clouds, 
Crimson and sable, rose upon his disk, 
And quench'd iiim ere his setting, like some 

champion 
In his last conflict, losing all his glory. 
Sure signals those of storm. And if my 
father 

Be on his homeward road 

Ele. But that he will not. 

Baron of Devorgoil, this day at least 
He banquets with the nobles — who, the 

ne.xt, 
Would scarce vouchsafe an alms to save his 

household 
From want or famine. Thanks to a kind 

friend. 
For one brief space we shall not need their 
aid. 
Flo." {ioyfully). What ! knew you then 
his gift? 
How silly I that would, yet durst not tell it! 
I fear my father will condemn us both, 
That easily accepted such a present. 

Kat. Now, here's the game a bystander 
sees better 
Than those who play it.— My good aunt is 
pondering 



On the good cheer which GuUcrammer has 
sent us, 

And Flora thinks upon the forest venison. 

\^Aside. 
Ele. {to Flo.) Thy father need not 
know on't — 'tis a boon 

Comes timely, when frugality,— nay, ab- 
stinence, 

Might scarce avail us longer. I had hoped 

Ere now a visit from the youthful donor. 

That we might thank his bounty ; and per- 
haps 

My Flora thought the same, when Sunday's 
kerchief 

And the best kirtle were sought out, and 
donn'd 

To grace a work-day evening. 

Flo. Nay, mother, that is judging all too 
close! 

My work-day gown was torn — .my kerchief 
sullied J 

And thus— But, think you, will the gallant 
come ? 
Ele. He wnll, for with these dainties 
came a message 

From gentle Master GuUcrammer, to in- 
timate 

Flo. {greatly disappointed). GuUcram- 
mer r 
Kat. There burst the bubble— down fell 
house of cards. 

And cousin's like to cry for't ! \Aside, 

Ele. GuUcrammer! ay, GuUcrammer; 
thou scorn' St not at him .? 

'Twere something short of wisdom in a 
maiden, 

Who, like the poor bat in the Grecian 
fable, 

Hovers betwixt two classes in the world, 

And is disclaim'd by both the mouse and 
bird. 
Kat. I am the poor mouse, 

And may go creep into what hole 1 list, 

And no one heed me— Yet I'U waste a word 

Of counsel en my betters.— Kind my aunt, 

And you, my gentle cousin, were't not 
better 

We thought of dressing this same gear tor 
supper. 

Than quarreUin^ 
donor ? 
Ele. Peace, minx ! 

Flo. Thou hast no feeling, cousin Kat- 
leen. 
Kat. So! I have brought them both OT 
my poor shoulders ; 



about the worthless 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



533 



So meddling peace-makers are still re- 
warded : 
E'en let them to't again, and fight it out. 
Flo, Mother, were 1 disclaim'd of every 

class, 
I would not therefore so disclaim myself. 
As even a passing thought of scorn to 

waste 
On cloddish Gullcrammer. 

Ele. List to me, love, and let adversity 
Incline thine ear to wisdom. Look around 

thee— 
Of the gay youths who boast a noble name, 
Which will incline to wed a dowerless 

damsel ? 
And of the yeomanry, who, think'st thou. 

Flora, 
Would ask to share the labors of his farm 
And high-born beggar?— This young man 

is modest 

' Flo. Silly, good mother ; sheepish, if 

! you will it. 

' Ele. E'en call it what you list — the softer 

temper, 
The fitter to endure the bitter sallies 
Of one whose wit is all too sharp for mine. 
Flo. Mother, you cannot mean it as you 

say; 
You cannot bid me prize conceited folly ? 
^ Ele. Content thee, child — each lot has 

its own blessings. 
This youth, with his plain-dealing honest 

suit. 
Proffers thee quiet, peace, and competence, 
! Redemption from a home, o'er which fell 

Fate 
Stoops like a falcon. — Oh ! if thou couldst 

choose 
(As no such choice is given) 'twixt such a 

mate 
And some proud noble I — Who, in sober 

judgment. 
Would like to navigate the heady river, 
Dashing in fury from its parent mountain, 
More than the waters of the quiet lake ? 
Kat. Now can I hold no longer— Lake, 

good aunt ? 
Nay, in the name of truth, say mill-pond, 

horse-pond ; 
pr if there be a pond more miry, 
More sluggish, mean-derived, and base than 

either, 
Be such Gullcrammer's emblem — and his 

portion ! 
\ Flo. I would that he or I were in our 

grave, 



Rather than thus his suit should goad me I 

— Mother, 
Flora of Devorgoil, though low in for- 

times. 
Is still too high in mind to join her name 
With such a base-born churl as Gullcram- 
mer. 
Ele. You are trim maidens both ! 

( To Flora.) Have you forgotten. 
Or did you mean to call to my remem- 
brance 
Thy father chose a wife of peasant blood ? 
Flo. Will you speak thus to me, or think 

the stream 
Can mock the fountain it derives its source 

from ? 
My venerated mother ! — in that name 
Lies all on earth a child should chiefest 

honor ; 
And with that name to mix reproach or 

taunt, 
Were only short of blasphemy to Heaven. 
Ele. Then listen. Flora, to that mother's 

counsel. 
Or rather profit by that mother's fate. 
Your father's fortunes were but bent, not 

broken. 
Until he listen'dto his rash affection. 
Means were afforded to redeem his house. 
Ample and large — the hand of a rich 

heiress 
Awaited, almost courted, his acceptance ; 
He saw my beauty — such it then was 

call'd, 
Or such at least he thought it — the wither'd 

bush. 
Whate'er it now may seem, had blossoms 

then, — 
And he forsook the proud and wealthy 

heiress, , 
To wed with me and ruin — 

Kat. {aside). The more fool, 

Say I, apart, the peasant maiden then. 
Who might have chose a mate from her own 

hamlet. 
Ele. Friends fell off, 
And to his own resources, his own coun- 
sels, 
'Abandoned, as they said, the thoughtless 

prodigal. 
Who had exchanged rank, riches, pomp, and 

honor, 
For the mean beauties of a cottage maid. 

Flo. It was done like my father. 
Who scorn'd to sell what wealth can never 

buy — 



534 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



True love and free affections And he 

loves you ! 
If you have sufTer'd in a weary world, 
Your sorrows have been jointly borne, and 

love 
Has made the load sit lighter. 

Ele. Ay, but a misplaced match hath 
that deep curse in't, 
That can embitter e'en the purest streams 
Of true affection. Thou hast seen me 

seeli, 
With the strict caution early habits targht 

me, 
To match our wants and means — liast 

seen thy father, 
With aristocracy's higli brow of scorn, 
Spuin at economy, the cottage virtue, 
As best befitting her whose sires were 

peasants : 
Nor can I, when I see my lineage scorn'd 
Always conceal in what contempt 1 hold 
The fancied claims of rank he clings to 
fondly. 
Flo. Why will you do so — well you 

know it chafes him. 
Ele. Flora, thy mother is but mortal 
woman, 
Nor can at all times check an eager 
tongue. 
Kat. {aside). That's no new tidings to 

her niece and daughter. 
Ele. O may'st thou never know the 
spited feelings 
That genders discord in adversity 
Betwixt the dearest friends and truest 

lovers I 
In the chill damping gale of poverty, 
If Love's lamp go not out, it gleams but 

palely. 
And twinkles in the socket. 

Flo. But tenderness can screen it with 
her veil. 
Till it revive again. By gentleness, good 

mother. 
How oft I've seen you soothe my father's 
mood ! 
Kat. Now there speak youthful hope 
and fantasy ! {Aside. 

Ele. That is an easier task in youth 
than age ; 
Our temper hardens, and our charms 

decay, 
And both are needed in that art of 
soothing. 
Kat. And there speaks sad experience. 
[Aitde. 



Ele. Besides, since that our state was 
utter desperate, 
Darker his brow, more dangerous grow 

his words : 
Fain would I snatch thee from the woe 

and wrath 
Which darkcn'd long my life, and soon 
must end it. 

[A knockmg without , Eleanor 
shows alarm. 
It was thy father's knock, — haste to the 
gate. 

\F.x lint Flora ajtd Katleen. 
What can liave happ'd?— he thought to 

stay the night. 
This gear must not be seen. 

{As she is alwitt to remove the has- 
ket, she ices the body of the roe- 
deer. 
What have we here ? a roe-deer ! — as I 

fear it, 
This was the gift of which poor Flora 
thought. 

The young and handsome hunter But 

time presses. 

[She removes the basket and the roe 
into a closet. As she has done — 

Enter Oswald of Devorgoil, Flora, 
and Katleen. 
{He is dressed in a scarlet cloak, 
which shot/Id seem worn and old 
— a head-piece, and old-fashioned 
sword — the rest of his dress that 
of a peasant. His countenance 
and manner should express the 
moody and irritable hau_q;htiness 
of a proud man i7ivolved in 
calamity, and who has been ex- 
posed to recent insult. 
Osw. [addressing his wife) — 
The sun hath set— why is the drawbridge 
lower'd .' 
Ele. The counterpoise has lail'd, and 
Flora's strength, 
Katleen's, and mine united, could not 
raise it. 
Osw. Flora and thou ! a goodly garri- 
son 
To hold A castle, which, if fame says true. 
Once foiled the King of Norse and all his 
rovers. 
Ele. It might be so in ancient times, 

bill now 

Osw A herd of deer might storm proud 
Devorgoil. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



535 



Kat. ^ aside toViSi.) You, Flora, know 
full vve.'l, one deer already 
Has eJitcr'd at the breach ; and, what is 

worse, 
The escort is not yet march'd off, for 

Blackthorn 
Is still within the castle. 

Flo. In heaven's name, rid him out 
on't, ere my father 
Discovers he is hefe ! Why went he not 
before ? 
Kat. Because I staid him on some 
little business ; 
1 had a plan to scare poor paltry Gull- 

c rammer 
Out of his paltry wits. 

Flo. Well, haste ye now 

And try to got him off. 

Kat. I will not promise that. 

I would not turn an honest hunter's dog, 

So well I love the woodcraft, out of shelter 

In .such a night as this, far less his master : 

But I'll do this,— I'll try to hide him for 

you. 

Osw. {xvhom /lis ivife lias assisted to 

take off /lis cloak ajid feat/iered cap) — 

Ay, take them off, and bring my peasant's 

bonnet 
And peasant's plaid— I'll noble it no 

further. 
Let them erase my name from honor's 

lists, 
And drag my scutcheon at their horses' 

heels : 
I have deserved it all, for I am poor, 
And poverty hath neither right of birth, 
Nor rank, relation, claim, nor privilege, 
To match a ncw-coin'd viscount, whose 

good-grandsire, 
The" lord be with him, was a careful 

skipper, 
And steer'd his paltry skiff 'twixt Leith 

and Campvere — 
Marry, sir, he could buy Geneva cheap. 
And knew the coast by moonlight. 

Flo Mean you the Viscount Ellon- 
dale, my father ? 
What strife has been between you i* 

Osw. O, a trifle! 

Not worth a wise man's thinking twice 

about ; — 
Precedence is a toy — a superstition 
About a table's end, joint-stool, and 

trencher. 
Something was once thought due to long 
descent, 



And something to Galwegia's oldest 

baron,— 
But let that pass — a dream of the old time. 
Ele. It is indeed a dream. 
Osw. (turning tipon /ler rat/ier 
quic/cly) — 
Ha ! said ye ? — let me hear these words 

more plain. 
Ele. Alas ! they are but echoes of 

your own, 
Match'd with the leal woes that hover 

o'er us, 
What are the idle visions of precedence. 
But, as you teim them, dreams, and toys, 

and trifles, 
Not worth a wise man's thinking twice 

upon ? 
Osw. Ay, 'twas for you I framed that 

consolatron, 
The true philosophy of clouted shoe 
And linsey-woolsey kirtle. 1 know, that 

minds 
Of nobler stamp receive no dearer motive 
Than v-fhat is link'd with honor. Ribbons, 

tassels, 
Which are but shreds of silk and spangled 

tinsel — 
The right of place, which in itself is mo- 
mentary— 
A word, which is but air— may in them- 
selves, 
And to the nobler file, be steep'd so 

richly 
In that elixir, honor, that the lack 
Of things so very trivial in themselves 
Shall be misfortune. One shall seek for 

them 
O'er the wild waves — one in the deadly 

breach 
And battle's headlohg front— one in the 

paths 
Ot midnight study,— and, in gaining these 
Emblems of honor, each will hold him- 
self 
Repaid for all his labors, deeds, and 

dangers. 
What then should he think, knowing them 

his own. 
Who sees what warriors and what sages 

toil for. 
The formal and establish'd marks of 

honor, 
Usurp'd from him by upstart insolence i* 
Ele. (zv/io /las listened to t/ie last speech 
7vit/i some impatience) — 
This is but empty declamation, Oswald, 



536 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The fragments left at yonder full-spread 

banquet, 
Nav, even the poorest crust swept from the 

" table, 
Ought to be far more precious to a father, 
Whose family lacks food, than the vain 

boast. 
He sate at the board-head. 

Osw. Thou'lt drive me frantic ! — I v/ill 

tell thee, woman — 
Yet why to thee ? There is another ear 
Which that tale better suits, and he shall 

hear it. 

[Looks at his s'uwd, rvhich he has 
unbuckled^ and addresses the rest 
of the speech to it. 
Yes, trusty friend, my father knew thy 

worth. 
And often proved it— often told me of it. 
Though thou and 1 be now held lightly of. 
And want the gilded hatchments of the 

time, 
I think we both may prove true metal still. 
'Tis thou shalt tell this story, right this 

wrong : 
Rest thou till time is fitting. 

\Hangs up the sword. 
\The Women look at each other 
with anxiety during this speecJi, 
which they partly ovet'hear. They 
both approach Oswald. 
Ele. Oswald, my dearest husband ! 
Flo. My dear father ! 

Osw. Peace, both ! — we speak no more 
of this. 1 go 
To heave the draw-bridge up. \Exit. 

Katleen mounts the steps tozvards the 
loop-hole, looks out, and speaks. 

Kat. The storm is gathering fast ; broad, 
heavy drops 

Fall plashing on the bosom of the lake, 

And dash its inky surface into circles ; 

The distant hills are hid in wreaths of dark- 
ness. 

*Twill be a fearful night. 

Oswald re-enters, and throivs himself 
into a seat. 
Ele. More dark and dreadful 

Than is our destiny, ii cannot be. 

Osw. {to Fho.) Such is Heaven's will — 
it is our part to bear it. 
We're warranted, my child, from ancient 
story 



And blessed writ, to say, that song assuages 
The gloomy cares that prey upon our reason, 
And wake a strife betwixt our better feelings 
And the fierce dictates of the headlong pas- 
sions. 
Sing, then, my love ; for if a voice have in- 
fluence 
To mediate peace betwixt me and my 

destiny, 
Flora, it must be thine. 
Flo. My best to please you 1 

SONG. 

When the tempest's at the loudest, 

On its gale the eagle rides ; 
When the ocean rolls the proudest, 

Through the foam the sea-bird glides — 
All the range of wind and sea 
Is subdued by constancy. 

Gnawing want and sickness pining, 

All the ills that men endure ; 
Each their various pangs combining, 

Constancy can find a cure — 
Pain, and Fear, and Poverty, 
Are subdued by constancy. 

Bar me from each wonted pleasure, 
Make me abiecr, mean, and poor; 

Heap on insults without measure, 
Chain me to a dungeon floor — 

I'll be happy, rich, and free. 

If endow'd with constancy. 

ACT IL— Scene I. 

A Chamber in a distant part of the Castle. 
A large Window in the flat scene, sup- 
posed to look on the Lake, which is oc- 
casionally illumijiated by lightning. 
There is a couch-ted in the room, and an 
antique cabinet. 

Ejiter Katleen, introducing Black 

THORN. 

Kat. This was the destined scene of 
action. Blackthorn, 
And here our properties. But all in vain. 
For of GuUcrammer we'll see naught to- 
night. 
Except tiie dainties that I told you of. 
Bla. O, if he's left that same hog's face 
and sausages. 
He will try back upon them, never fear it. 
The cur will open on the trail of bacon, 
Like my old brachhound. 

Kat. And should that hap, we'll play 
our comedy, 



THE nouji OF DEVORGO/L. 



537 



Shall we not, Blackthorn ? Thou shalt be 

Owlspiegle 

Bla. And who may that hard-named per- 
son be ? 
Kat, I've told you nine times over. 
Bla. Yes, pretty Katleen, but my eyes 
, were busy 
In looliing at you all the time you were 

talking ; 
And so 1 lost the tale. 

Kat. Tlien shut your eyes, and let your 
goodly ears 
Do their good office. 

Bla. That were too hard penance. 

Tell but thy tale once more, and 1 will 

hearken 
As if I were thrown out, and listening for 
My blood-hound's distant bay. 

Kat. a civil simile ! 

Then, tor the tenth time, and the last, — 

be told, 
Owlspiegle was of old the wicked barber 
To Erick, wicked Lord of Devorgoil. 

Bla. The chief who drown'd his captives 
in the Solway ? 
We all have heard of him. 

Kat. a hermit hoar, a venerable man — 
So goes the legend — came to wake repent- 
ance 
In the fierce lord, and tax'd him with his 

guilt; 
But he, heart-harden'd,.turn'd into derision 
The man of heaven, and, as his dignity 
Consisted much in a long reverend beard, 
Which reach'd his girdle, ^rick caused his 

barber, . 
This same Owlspiegle, violate its honors 
With sacrilegious razor, and clip his hair 
After the fashion of a roguish fool. 

Bla. This was reversing of our ancient 
proverb, 
And shaving for the devil's, not for God's 
sake. 
Kat. True, most grave Blackthorn ; and 
in punishment 
Of this foiil act of scorn, the barber's ghost 
Is said to have no resting after death, 
But haunts these halls, and chiefly this same 

chamber, 
Where the profanity was acted, trimming 
And clipping all such guests as sleep with- 
in it. 
Such is at least the tale our elders tell, 
With many others, of this haunted castle. 
Bla. And you would have me take this 
shape of Owlbpieg'^ 



No — unless you bsr.r 



And trim the wise Melchisedek .' — I wonnot, 
Kat. You will not 1 
Bla. 

a part. 
Kat. What ! can you not alone pla;; 

such a farce ? 
Bla. Not 1 — I'm dull. Besides, we for- 
esters 
Still hunt our game in couples. Look you, 

Katleen, 
We danced at Shrovetide — then you were 

my partner; 
We sung at Christmas — you kept time with 

me; 
And if we go a mumming in this business, 
By heaven, you must be one, or Master 
Gullcrammer 

Is like to rest unshaven 

Kat. Why, you fool, 

What end can this serve ? 

Bla. Nay, I know 

not, I. 
But if we keep this wont cf being partners, 
Why, use makes perfect — who knows what 
1 may happen ? 

Kat. Thcu art a foolish patch — But sing 
our card, 
As I have alter'd it, with scm3 few words 

To suit the characters, and I will bear 

[ Gives a paper. 
Bla. Part in the gambol. I'll go study 
quickly. 
Is there no other ghost, then, haunts the 

c 'e. 
But t... . same barber shave-a-penny goblin .• 
I thought they glanced in every beam of 

moonshine, 
As frequent as a bat. 

Kat. I've heard my aunt's high husband 
tell of prophecies. 
And fates impending o'er the house cf 

Devorgoil ; 
Legends first coin'd by ancient superstition, 
And render'd current by credulity 
And pride of lineage. Five years have I 

dwelt, 
And ne'er saw anything more mischievous 
Than what I am myself. 

Bla. And that is quite enough, I war- 
rant you. 
But, stay, where shall I find a dress 
To play tliis — what d'ye call him — Owl« 
spiegle? 
Kat. [takes dresses out of the cabinet). 
Why, therG are his own clothes. 
Preserved with other trumpery of the sort| 



53^ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For we've kept naught but what i« good 
for naught. 

\She drops a cap as she draws otit 
the clothes Blackthorn lifts it, 
and gives it to her. 

Nay, keep it for thy pains— it is a cox- 
comb, — 

So call'd in ancient times, in ours a fool's 
cap, — 

For you must know they kept a Fool at 
IDevorgoil 

In former days , but now are well con- 
tented 

To play the fool themselves, to save ex- 
penses 

Yet give it me, I'll find a v;orthy use for 't. 

I'll take this page's dress, to play the page 

Cockledemoy, who waits on ghostly Owl- 
spiegle, 

And yet 'tis needless, too, for Gullcrammer 

Will scarce be here to-night. 

Bla. I tell you that he will— I will up- 
hold 

riis plighted faith and true allegiance 

Unto a sows'd sow's face and sausages, 

And such the dainties that you say he sent 
you. 

Against aL other aKings whatsoever, 

.Except a certain sneaking of affection, 

Which makes some f.lks I Know of play 
the fool 

To please some -ther folKs 

Kat Well, I do hope he'l) come 
There's first a chance 

He wiU be cudgeh d by my rcble uncie— 

I cry his mercy — by m^ (rood aunt's hus- 
band. 

Who did vow ■"engear.ce, knowing naught 
of him 

Bu by repo't, and by a limping sonnet 

Which b_ had fashion'd to my cousin's 
-.ory. 

And forwarded by blind Tom Long the 
carrier ; 

So there's the chance, first of a hearty 
beating. 

Which failing, we've this after-plot of 
vengeance. 
Bla. Kind damsel, how considerate 
and merciful ! 

But how shall we get off, our parts being 
play'd .'' 
Kat. For that we are well fitted : — 
here's a trap-door 

Sinks with a counterpoise — you shall go 

th-jt w>v 



I'll make my exit yonder — 'neath the 

window, 
A balcony communicates with the tower 
That overhangs the lake. 

Bla. 'Twere a rare place, this house of 
Devorgoil, 
To play at hide-and-seek in— shall we try, 
One day, my pretty Katleen } 

Kat. Hands off, rude ranger ! Tm nc 
managed hawk 
To stoop to fure of yours. — But bear you 

gallantly ; 
This Gullcrammer hath vex'd my cousin 

much, — 
I fain would have some vengeance 

Bla. I'll bear my part ^with glee, — h^ 
spoke irreverently 
Of practice at a mark ! 

Kat. That cries for vengeance. 

But I must go — I hear my aunt's shrilj 

voice! 
My cousin and her father will scream next. 
ElE. {at a distance). Katleen ! Kat- 
leen ! 
Bla. Hark to old Sweetlips. 
Away with you before the full cry open — 
But stay, what have you there .^ 

Kat \-with a btindle she has taken from 
the wardrobe . — 
My dress, my page's dress— let it alone. 
Bla Y ur tiring-room is not, 1 hope, 
far distant ; 
You're Inexperienced in these new habili- 
ments— 
I am most ready to assist your toilet. 
Kat, Out, you great ass 1 was ever 
such a fooi ! \Rufis off. 

Bl/. {sings). 
O, Robin Hood was a bowman good, 

And a bowman good was he. 
And he met with a maiden m merry Sher- 
wood, 
All under the greenwood tree. 

Now give me a kiss, quoth bold Robin 
Hood, 
Now give me a kiss, said he, 
For there never came maid into merry 
Sherwood, 
But she paid the forester's fee. 

I've coursed this twelvemonth this sly puss, 

young Katleen, 
And she has dodged me, turn'd beneath 

my nose, 
And flung me out a score of yards at oncej 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



539 



If this same gear fadge right, FII coto and 
mouth her, 

And then ! whoop ! dead ! dead ! dead ! — 
She is the metal 

To make a woodman's wife of ! 

{Pauses a moment. 

Well — I can find a hare upon her form 

With any man in Nithsdale — stalk a 
deer, 

Run Reynard to the earth for all his dou- 
bles, 

Reclaim a haggard hawk that's wild and 
wayward, 

Can bait a wild cat, — sure the devil's in't 

But I can match a woman — I'll to study. 

\_Sits down on the couch to exum- 
ine the paper. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to the inhabited apartment 
of the Castle^ as in the last Scene of the 
preceding Act. A fire is kindled, by 
which Oswald sits in an attitude of 
deep aud melaJicJwly thought^ without 
paymg attention to what passes around 
him. Eleanor is busy in covering a 
table ; Flora goes out and re-enters, as 
if busied in the kitchen. There should 
be some by-play — the Women whispering 
together, and watching the state of Os- 
wald ; then separating and seeking to 
avoid his observation, when he casually 
raises his head and drops it again • 
This must be left to taste and manage- 
ment. The Women, in the first part of 
the scene, talk apart, and as if fearful 
of being overheard ; the by-flay of stop- 
ping occasionally, and attending to 
Oswald's movements, will give live- 
liness to the Scene. 

Ele. Is all prepared ? 
Flo. Ay ; but I doubt the issue 

Will give my sire less pleasure than you 
hope for. 
Ele. Tush, maid — I know thy father's 
humor better. 
He was high-bred in gentle luxuries : 
And when our griefs began, I've wept 

apart. 
While lordly cheer and high-fill'd cups of 

wine 
Were bhndmg him agamst the woe to 

come. 
He has tiirn'd his back upon a princely 
banquet ; 



We will not spread his board— this night 

at least. 
Since chance hath better furnish'd — with 

dry bread. 
And water from the well. 

Enter Katleen, and hears the last speech. 

Kat. (aside). Considerate aunt ! she 
deems that a good supper 
Were not a thing indifferent even to him 
Who is to hang to-morrow. Since she 

thinks so, 
We must take care the venison has due 

honor — 
So much I owe the sturdy knave, Lance 
Blackthorn- 
Flo. Mother, alas ! when Grief turns 
. reveller, 
Despair is cup-bearer. What sliall hap 
to-morrow ? 
Ele, I have learn'd carelessness from 
fruitless care. 
Too long I've watch'd to-morrow ; let it 

come 
And cater for itself — Thou hear'st the 
thunder. YLozv and distant thunder. 
This is a gloomy night — witliin, alas ! 

\Looking at her husband. 
Still gloomier aid more threatening — Let 

us use 
Whatever means we have to drive it o'er. 
And leave to Heaven to-morrow. Trust 

me, Flora, 
'Tis the philosophy of desperate want 
To match itself but with the present evil, 
And face one grief at once. 
Away ! I wish thine aid, and not thy counsel. 
\_As Flora is aboid to go off, 
Gullcrammer's voice is heard 
behind the fiat scene, as if from 
the drawbridge. 
GuL. {behind). Hillo— hillo— hilloa— 
hoa — ^lioa ! 

[Oswald raises himself and lis- 
tens ; Eleanor ^cirj- up the steps 
andt opens the window at the 
loop-hole : Gullcrammer's voice 
is then heard more distinctly. 
GuL. Kind Lady Devorgoil — svyfeet Mis- 
tress Flora ! — 
The night grows fearful, I have lost my way. 
And wander'd till the road tum'd round 

with me, 
And brought me back. For Heaven'* 
sake, give me shelter I 



540 



SCO TT 'S FOE TIC A L WORKS. 



Kat. {aside). Now, as I live, the voice 
of Gullcrammer ! 

Now shall our gambol be play'd off with 
spirit ; 

I'll swear I am the only one to whom 

That screech-owl whoop was e'er accept- 
able. 
Osw. What bawling knave is this, that 
takes our dwelling 

For some hedge-inn, the haunt of lated 
drunkards ? 
Ele. What shall I say ?— Go, Katleen, 

speak to him. 
Kat. (aside). The game is in my hands 
— I will say something 

Will fret the Baron's pride — and then lie 
enters. 

{She speaks from ihe -window) — Good sir, 
be patient 1 

We are poor folks — it is but six Scotch 
miles 

To the next borough town, where your 
Reverence 

May be accommodated to your Avants ; 

We are poor folks, an't please your Rever- 
ence, 

And keep a narrow household — there's no 
track 

To lead your steps astray — 
GtiL. Nor none to lead them right — 
You kill me, lady, 

If you deny me harbor. To budge from 
hence, 

And in my weary plight, were sudden 
death, 

Interment, funeral-sermon, tombstone, epi- 
taph, 
Oswr. Who's he that is thus clamorous 
without .'' 

( To Ele. ) Thou know'st him ? 
Ele. {confused). 1 know him ? — No — 
yes — 'tis a worthy clergyman, 

Benighted on his way ;-=— but think not of 
him. 
Kat. The mom will rise when that the 
tempest's past, 

And if he miss the marsh, and can avoid 

The crags upon the left, the ."oad is plain. 
Osw. Then this is all youi* pi'ety ! — to 
leave 

One whom the holy duties of his offios 

Have summon'd over moor and wilder- 
ness, 

To pray beside some dying wretch's bed. 

Who I erring mortalj still would cleave to 
life»— 



Or wake some stubborn sinner to repent- 

ance, — 
To leave him, after offices like these, 
To choose his way in darkness 'twixt the 

marsh 
And dizzy precipice? 
Ele. - WHiat can I do ? 

Osw. Do what thou canst — the wcaliriv 

iest do no more ; 
And if so nuich, 'tis well. These crumb' 

ling walls. 
While yet they bear a roof, shall now, as 

ever. 
Give shelter to the wanderer. — Have we 

food .? 
He shall partake it— Have we none .? th3 

fast 
Shall be accounted with the good man's 

merits 
And our misfortunes 

\He goes to the loop-hole ivliiU he 
sfcaks, and places himself there 
in room of his Wife, who coyncs 
down zvith reluctance, 

GuL. {-without). Hillo — hoa— hoa ! 
By my good faith, 1 cannot plod it farther; 
The attempt were death, 

Osw. {speaks from the window) — V:l- 

tience, my friend, I come to lower the 

drawbridge. [Descends, and exit. 

Ele. O that the screaming bittern had 

his couch 
Where he deserves it, in the deepest marsh \ 
Kat I would not give this sport for all 

the rent 
Of Devorgoil, when Devorgoil was richest J 
( To Ele.) But now you chided me, my 

dearest aunt, 
For wishing him a horse-pond for his por- 
tion .'' 
Ele. Yes, saucy girl ; but, an it please 

you, then 
He was not fretting me. If he had sensR 

enough, 
And skill to bear him as some casual 

stranger, — 
But he is dull as earth, and every hint 
Is lost on him, as hail-sliot on tlie corm(>« 

j-ant, 
Whose hide is proof except to musket-bMl' 

lets ! 
Flo. {apart). And yet to such a ona 

would my kind mutl-.er, 
Whose chief est fault is loving me too fondly 
Wed her poor daughter ? 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



541 



Enter GULLCRAMMER, his dress damaged 
by the storm ; Eleanor runs to. meet 
hl»i^ in order to explain to hnn that she 
Tx'islicd him to behave as a stranger. 
GuLLCRAMMER, mistaking her approach 
for an invitation to familiarity, ad- 
vances ivith the air of pedantic conceit be- 
lojiging to his character, when Oswald 
enters, — Eleanor recovers herself and 
assumes an air of distance- -G U LLC RAM- 
MER zi" confounded, and does not know 
what to make of it. 

Osw. The counterpoise has clean given 

way ; the bridge 
Must e'en remain unraised, and leave us 

open, 
For this night's course at least, to passing 

visitants. — 
What have we here ?— is this the reverend 



\^Hc takes tip the candle, and sur- 
veys Gu LLC RAMMER, 'cvho strives 
to sustain the inspection with con- 
fidence, while fear obviously con- 
"Hends with conceit and desire to 
show himself to the best advantage. 

GuL, Kind sir — or, good my lord — my 
band is ruffled, 
But yet 'twas fresh this morning. This 

fell shov/er 
Hath somewhat smirch'd my cloak, but 

you may note 
It rates five marks per yard ; my doublet 
Hath fairly 'scaped — 'tis three-piled taffeta. 
\Opens his cloak, and displays his 
doublet, 
Osw. A goodly inventory — Art thou a 

preacher ? 
GuL. Yea — I laud Heaven and good 

Saint Mungo for it. 
Osw. 'Ts tlie time's plague, when those 
that should weed follies 
Out of the common field, have their own 

minds 
O'errun with foppery — Envoys 'twixt 

hea\en and earth, 
Example should with precept join, to show 

us 
How we may scora tha world with all its 
vanities. 
GuL. Nay, the high heavens forefend 
that I were vain ! 
When our learn'd Principal such sounding 
kud 



Gave to mine Essay on the hidden qualities 

Of the sulphuric mineral, I disclaim'd 

All sejf-exaltment. And {turning to ike 
women) when at the dance, 

The lovely Sacchanssa Kirkencroft, 

Daughter to Kirkencroft of Kirkencroft, 

Graced me with her soft liand, credit me, 
ladies, 

That still I felt myself a mortal man, 

Though beauty smiled on me. 
Osw. Come, sir, enough of this. 

That you're oui' guest to-night, thank the 
rough heavens. 

And all our worser fortunes ; be confornv 
able 

Unto my rules ; these are no Saccharissas 

To gild with compliments. There's in your 
profession, 

As the best grain will have its piles of 
chaff, 

A certain whiffler, who hath dared to bait 

A noble maiden with love tales and son- 
nets ; 

And if 1 meet him, his Geneva cap 

May scarctj be proof to save his ass's ears. 
Kat. (aside). Umph— I am strongly 
tempted ; 

And yet 1 think I will be generous, 

And give his brains a chance to save his 
bones. 

Then there's more humor in our goblin 
plot, 

Than in a simple drubbing, 

Ele. {apart to Flo). What shall we 
do? If he discover him, 

He'll fling him out at window. 
Flo. My father's hint to keep liimself 
unknown 

Is all too broad, I think, to be neglected. 
Ele. But yet the fool, if wc produce his 
bounty. 

May claim the merit of presenting it ; 

And then we're but lost women for accept- 
ing 

A gift our needs made timely. 
Kat. Do not produce them 

E'en let the fop go supperless to bed, 

And keep his bones whole. 

Osw. {to his Wife)—Yizst thou aught 

To place before him ere he seek repose? 
Ele. Alas ! too well you know our need- 
ful fare 

Is of the narrowest now, and knows no sur- 
plus. 
Osw. Shame us not with thy niggard 
housekeeping : 



542 



SCOTT'S POETTCAL WORK'S. 



He is a stranger — were it our ]ast crust, 
And he the veriest coxcomb e'er wore 

taffeta, 
A pitch he's little short of — ^he must 

hare it. 
Though all should want to-morrow. 

GuL. {parity overhearing what passes 
between them) — 
Nay, I am no lover of your sauced 

dainties^ — 
Plain food and plenty is my motto still. 
Your mountain air is bleak, and brings an 

appetite : 
A soused sow's face, now, to my modest 

thinking, 
Has ne'er a fellow. What think these fair 

ladies 
Of a sow's face and sausages ? 

[Alakes signs to Eleanor. 
Flo. Plague on the vulgar hind, and 
on his courtesies ! 
The whole truth will come out ! 

Osw, What should they think, but that 
you're like to lack 
Your favorite dishes, sir, unless per- 
chance 
You bring such dainties with you, 

GuL No, not with me ; not, indeed. 
Directly ivith me; but — Aha! fair ladies! 
[^Makes sig7is again. 
Kat. He'll draw the beating down — 
Were that the worst, 
Heaven's will be done ! [Aside. 

Osw. {apart). What can he mean ? — 
this is the veriest dog-whelp — 
Still he's a stranger, and the latest act 
Of hospitality in this old mansion 
Shall not be sullied. 

GuL. Troth, sir, I think, under the 
ladies' favor. 
Without pretending skill in second-sight. 
Those of my cloth being seldom con- 
jurers 

Osw. I'll take my Bible-oath that thou 

art none. [Aside. 

GuL. I do opine, still with the ladies' 

favor, 

That I could guess the nature of our 

supper : 
.1 do not say in such and such precedence 
The dishes will be placed — housewives, as 

you know. 
On such forms have their fancies ; but, I 
say still, 

That a sow's face ax»d sausages 

Osw. Peace, sir I 



O'er-driven jests (if this be one) arc in- 
solent. 
Flo. {apart, seeing her mother uneasy)^ 
The old saw still holds true — a churl's 

benefits, 
Sauced with his lack of feeling, sense, and 

courtesy. 
Savor like injuries. 

[A horn is winded without ; then a 
loud k-nocking at the gate. 
Leo. {without). Ope, for the sake of 
love and charity I 

[Oswald goes to the loop-hols. 
GuL. Heaven's mercy! should there 
come another stranger, 
And he half starved with wandering on the 

wolds. 
The sow's face boasts no substance, nor the 

sausages, 
To stand our reinforced attack ! I judge, too, 
By this starved Baron's language, there's 

no hope 
Of a leserve of victuals. 
Flo. Go to the casement, cousin. 
Kat. Go yourself, 

And bid the gallant, wh© that bugle 

winded, ^ 

Sleep in the storm-swept waste; as meet 

for him 
As for Lance Blackthorn. — Come, I'll not 

distress you ; 
I'll get admittance for this second suitor, 
And we'll play out this gambol at cross 

purposes. 
But see, your father has prevented me. 
Osw. {seems to have spoken with those 
without, and answers) — 
Well, I will ope the door ; one guest 

already. 
Driven by the storm, has claim'd my 

hospitality. 
And you, if you were fiends, were scarce 

less welcome 
To this my mouldering roof, than empty 

ignorance 
And rank conceit. I hasten to admit you. 

[Exit. 
Ele. {to Flo.) The tempest thickensi. 
By that winded bugle, 
I guess the guest that next will honof 

us. — 
Little deceiver, that didst mock ray 

troubles, 
'Tis now thy turn to fear ? 

Flo. Mother, if I knew less or more of 
this 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



543 



Unthoiight-of and most perilous visitation, 
I would your wishes were fulfiU'd on me, 
And I were wedded to a thing like yon. 
GuL. {approaching). Come, ladies, now 

you see the jest is threadbare. 
And you must own that same sow's face 

and sausages 

Re-enter Oswald with Leonard, snp- 
/orting BAVI.D1K DuRWARD. Oswald 
tal^es a viezv of ihcm^ as formerly of 
GuLLCRAMMER, then speaks — 

Osw. {to Leo.) By thy green cassock, 

hunting-spear, and bugle, 
I guess thou art a huntsman ? 

Leo. {boxving with respect) — 
A ranger of the neighboring royal forest, 
Under the good Lord Nithsdale ; hunts- 
man, therefore, 
Iti time of peace ; and when the land has 

war, 
To my best powers a soldier. 

Osw. Welcome, as either. I have 

loved the chase, 
And was a soldier once. — This aged man, 
What may he be ? 

DuR. (recovering his breath)— 
Is but a beggar, sir, an humble mendicant, 
Who feels it passing strange, that from 

this roof. 
Above all others, he should now crave 

shelter. 
Osw. Why so? You're welcome both 

— only the word 
Warrants more courtesy than our present 

means 
Permit us to bestow. A huntsman and a 

soldier 
May be a prince's comrade, much more 

mine ; 
And for a beggar — friend, there little 

lacks. 
Save that blue gown and badge, and 

clouted pouches, 
To make us comrades too ; then welcome 

both, 
And to a beggar's feast. I fear, brown 

bread, 
And water from the spring, will be the 

best on't ; 
For we had cast to wend abroad this 

evening. 
And left our larder empty. 

GuL. Yet, if some kindly fairy, 

In cur behalf, would search its hid 



{Apart) We'll not go supperless now— 

we're three to one. — 
Still do I say, that a soused face and 

sausages 

Osw. {looks sterjily at him^ then at his 

wife) — 
There's something under this, but that 

the present 
Is not a time to question. — {To Ele.) 

Wife, my mood 
Is at such height of tide, that a turn'd 

feather 
Would make me frantic now, with mirth 

or fury ! 
Tempt me no more — but if thou hast the 

things 
This carrion crow so croaks for, bring 

them forth ; 
For, by my father's beard, if I stand 

caterer, 
'Twill be a fearful banquet ! 
Ele. Your pleasure be obey'd — Com.a 

aid me, Flora. \^Exc-t{7tt. 

l^During the following speeches, the 

Women place dishes on the table. 

Osw. {to DuR.) How did you lose your 

path ? 
DuR. E'en when we thought to find it, 

a wild meteor 
Danced in the .'^ncss, and led our feet 

astray. — 
I give small credence to the tales of old, 
Of Friar's-lantern told, and Will-o'-Wisp, 
Else would I say, that some malicious 

.demon 
Guided us in a round ; for to the moat. 
Which we had pass'd two hours since, 

were we led. 
And there the gleam flicker'd and disap- 

pear'd. 
Even on your drawbridge. I was so wore 

down, 
So broke with laboring through marsh 

and moor. 
That, wold I nold I, here my young con- 
ductor 
Would needs implore for entrance ; else^- 

believe me, 
I had not troubled you. 

Osw. And why not, father ? — have yoo 

e'er heard aught, 
Or of my house or me, that v;anderers, 
Whom or their roving trade or sudden cir« 

cumstance 
Oblige to seek a shelter, should avoid 
The House of Devorgoil ? 



544 



scorrs poetical works. 



DuR. Sir, I am English born — 

Native of Cumberland. Enough is said 
Why 1 should shun those towers, whose 

lords were hostile 
To English blood, and unto Cumberland 
Most hostile and most fatal. 

Osw. Ay, father. Once my grandsire 
plough'd and harrow'd, 
And sow'd with salt, the streets of your fair 

towns : 
But what of that ? — you have the 'vantage 
now. 
DuR. True, Lord of Devorgoil, and well 
believe I, 
.That not in vain we sought these towers to- 
night. 
So strangely guided, to behold their state. 
Osw. Ay, thou wouldst say^ 'twas fit a 
Cumbrian beggar 
Should sit an equal guest in his proud halls, 
Whose fathers beggar' d Cumberland — 

Graybeard, let it be so, 
I'll not dispute it with thee. 

( To Leo. rvho was speaking to 
Flora, btit, on being surprised, 
occupied himself "with the suit of 
armor) — 

What makes t thou 

there, young man ? 

Leo. I marvell'd at this harness ; it is 

larger 

Than arms of modern days . How richly 

carved [rivets — 

With gold inlaid on steel — how close the 

How justly fit the joints I I think the 

gauntlet 
Would swallow twice my hand. 

\He is about to take down some part of 
the armor ; Oswald interferes- 

Osw. Do not displace it. 

My grandsire, Erick, doubled human 

strength, 
And almost human size — and human 

knowledge, 
And human vice, and human virtue also. 
As storm or sunshine chanced to occupy 
His mental hemisphere. After a fatal deed, 
He hung his armor on the wall, forbid- 
ding 
It e'er should be ta'en down. There is a 

prophecy. 
That of itself 'twill fall, upon the night 
When, in the fiftieth year from his decease, 
Devorgoil's feast is full. This is the era ; 
Cut, as too well you see, no meet occasion 



Will do the downfall of the armor justice, 

Or grace it with a feast. There let it bide, 

Trying its strength with the old walls it 
hangs on. 

Which shall fall soonest. 

DuR. {lookitig at tlie tropJiy with a mix' 
ture of feeling) — 

Then there stern Erick's harness hangs 
untouch'd. 

Since his last fatal raid on Cumberland ! 
Osw. Ay. waste and want, and reckless- 
ness — a comrade 

Still yoked with waste and want — have 
stripped these walls 

Of every other trophy. Antler'd skulls. 

Whose branches vouch'd tho tales old vas- 
sals told 

Of desperate chases — partisans and 
spears — 

Knights' barred helms and shields — the 
shafts and bows, 

Axes and breastplates, of the hardy yeo- 
manry — 

The banners of the vanquish'd — signs these 
arms 

Were not assumed in vain, have disap- 
pear 'd ; 

Yes, one by one they all have disappear'd ; — 

And now Lord Erick's harness hangs alone, 

'Midst implements of vulgar husbandry 

And mean economy ; as some old warrior, 

Whom want hath made an inmate of an 
alms-house. 

Shows, mid the beggar'd spendthrifts, base 
mechanics. 

And bankrupt pedlers, with whom fate has 
mix'd him. 
DuR. Or rather like a pirate, whom the 
prison-house. 

Prime leveller next the grave, hath for the 
first time 

Mingled with peaceful captives, low in for- 
tunes, 

But fair in innocence. 

Osw. (looking at Durward with sur* 

prise) — Friend, thou art bitter ! 
DuR. Plain truth, sir, like the vulgar cop- 
per coinage, 

Despised amongst the gentry, still finds 
value 

And currency with beggars. 
Osw. Be it so. 

I will not trench on the immunities 

I soon may claim to share. Thy features, too, 

Though wca'Lher-beaten, and thy strain of 
language, 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



545 



Relish of better days. Come hither, friend, 
[ They speak apart. 
And let me ask thee of thine occupation. 

[Leonard looks round, and, see- 
ing Oswald engaged -wiih Dur- 

\WXnD,and GU LLC RAMMER tijifh 

Eleanor, approaches towards 
Flora, xvko must give h'nn an 
opportiniity of doing so, with ob- 
vious attejition on her part to 
give it the air of chaiice. The 
by-play here will rest zvith the 
Lady, who must engage the atten- 
tion of the audience by playiiig 
off a little female hypocrisy and 
simple coquetry. 

Leo. Flora 

Flo. Ay, gallant huntsman, may she 
deign to question 
Why Leonard came not at the appointed 

hour ; 
Or why he came at midnight ? 

Leo. Love has no certain loadstar, gentle 
Flora, 
And oft gives up the helm to wayward 

pilotage. 
To say the sooth — A beggar forced me 

hence, 
And Will-o'-wisp did guide us back again, 
Flo, Ay, ay, your beggar was the faded 
spectre 
Of Poverty, that sits upon the threshold 
Of the^e our ruin'd walls. I've been un- 
wise, 
Leonard, to let you speak so oft with me ; 
And you a fool to say what you have 

said. 
E'en let us here break short ; and, wise at 

length. 
Hold each our separate way through life's 
wide ocean, 
Leo. Nay, let us rather join our course 
together, 
And share the breeze or tempest, doubling 

joys, 
Relieving sorrows, warding evils off 
With mutual effort, or enduring them 
With mutual patience. 
Flo. This is but flattering counsel- 
sweet and baneful ; 
But mine had wholesome bitter in't. 
Kat. Ay, ay; but like the sly apothe- 
cary, 
You'll be the last to take the bitter drug 
That you prescribe to others. 

{They whisper. Eleanor ad- 



vances to interrupt thetn, fol- 
lowed by Gullcrammer. 
Ele. What, maid, no household cares ? 
Leave to your elcicrs 
The task of filling passing strangers' cars 
With the due notes of welcome. 

GuL. Be it thine, 

O, Mistress Flora, the more useful talent 
Of filling strangers' stomachs with substan- 

tials ; 
That is to say,— for learned commentators 
Do so expound substantials in some 

peaces, — 
With a soused bacon-face and sausages. 
Fl-O. [apart). Would, thou v/crt soused, 
intolerable pedant. 
Base, greedy, perverse, interrupting cox- 
comb ! 
Kat. Hush, coz, for we'll be well aveng- 
ed on him, 
And ere this night goes o'er, else woman's 

wit 
Cannot o'ertake her wishes. 

\_She proceeds to arrange seats. 
Oswald and Durwakd come 
forward in conversatioii. 
Osw. I like thine humor well. — So all 

men beg 

DuR. Yes — I can make it good by proof. 
Your soldier 
Begs for a leaf of laurel, and a line 
In the Gazette ; — he brandishes his sword 
To back his suit, and is a sturdy beggar. — 
The courtier begs a ribbon or a star, 
And, like our gentler mumpers, is pro- 
vided 
With false certificates of health and for- 
tune 
Lost in the public service. — For your lover, 
Who begs a sigli, a smile, a lock of hair, 
A buskin-point, he maunds upon the pad, 
With the true cant of pure mendicity, 
" The smallest trifle to relieve a Christian, 
And if it like your ladyship ! " 

\In a begging fo7te. 
Kat. {apart). This is a cunning knave, 
and feeds the humor 
Of my aunt's husband, for I must not say 
Mine honor'd uncle. I will try a ques- 
tion. — 
Your man of merit though, who serves the 
commonwealth. 

Nor asks for a requital ? 

[To Durward. 

DuR. Is a dumb beggar, 

And lets his actions speak like signs for him, 



54<5 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Challenging double guerdon. — Now, I'll 

show 
How your true beggar has the fair advan- 
tage 
O'er all the tribes of cloak'd mendicity 
I have told over to you. — The soldier's 

laurel, 
The statesman's ribbon, and the lady's 

favor, 
Once won and gain'd, are not held worth 

a farthing 
By such as longest, loudest, canted for 

them ; 
Whereas your charitable halfpenny, 
Which is the scope of a true beggar's 

suit, 
Is worth two farthings, and, in times of 

plenty,) 
Will buy a crust of bread. 

Flo. {interrupting him, and address- 
ing her father )— 
Sir, let me be a beggar with tha time, 
And pray you come to supper. 

Ele. {to Oswald, apart). Must he sit 

with us ? [^Lookijig at Durward. 

Osw. Ay, ay, what else — since we are 

beggars all ? 
When cloaks are ragged, sure their worth 

is equal. 
Whether at first they were of silk or 

woollen . 
Ele. Thou art scarce consistent. 
This day thou didst refuse a princely ban- 
quet. 
Because a new-made lord was placed 

above thee; 

And now 

Osw. Wife, I have seen, at public exe- 
cutions, 
A wretch that could not brook the hand of 

violence 
Should push him from the scaffold, pluck 

up courage, 
And, with a desperate sort of cheerfulness, 
Take the fell plunge himself — 
Welcome then, beggars, to a beggar's 

feast .' 
GuL, {who has in the mean while seated 

hiynself ) — 
But this is more. — k better countenance, — 
Fair fall the hands that soused it ! — than 

this hog's, 
Or prettier provender than these same 

sausages, 
(By what good friend sent hither, shall be 

nameless — 



Doubtless some youth whom love hath 
made profuse,) 

\_Smili7tg significantly at Eleanor 
and Flora.] 
No prince need wish to peck at. Long, I 

ween, 
Since that the nostrils of this house (by 

metaphor, 
I mean the chimneys) smell'd a stream so 

grateful. — 
By your good leave I cannot dally longer. 

\_Helps himself. 
Osw. {places Durward abo'c;e Gull- 
crammer). Meanwhile, sir. 
Please it your youthful learning to give 

place 
To gray hairs and to wisdom ; and, more- 
over. 
If you had tarried for the benediction — -- 
GuL. {somewhat abashed). I said grace 

to myself. 
Osw. {not minding him) — And waited 
for the company of others, 
It had been better fashion. Time has been, 
I should have told a guest at Devorgoil, 
Bearing himself thus forward, he was 
saucy. 

\^He seats himself, and helps the com* 
pany and himself in dtimb-show. 
There should be a cotitrast betxuixt 
the precision of his aristocratic 
civility^ and the rude underbreed- 

ing (7/GULLCRAMMER. 

Osw. {having tasted the dish next him) 

— Why, this is venison, Eleanor ! 
GuL. Eh ! What ! Let's see— {Pushes 
across Oswald and helps himself.) 
It may be venison — 
I'm sure 'tis not beef, veal, mutton, lamb, 

or pork. 
Eke am I sure, that be it what it will, 
It is not half so good as sausages, 
Or as a sov/'s face soused. 

Osw. Eleanor, whence all this ? 

Ele. Wait till to-morrow, 

You shall know all. It was a happy chance 
That furnish'd us to meet so many guests 

— {Fills wine). 
Try if your cup be not as richly garnish'd 
As is your trencher. 
Kat. {apart). My aunt adheres to thg 
good cautious maxim 
Of "Eat your pudding, friend, and hold 
your tongue." 
Osw. {tastes the wine). It is the grap« 
of Bordeitux, 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



547 



Such dainties, once familiar to my board, 

Have been estranged from't long. 

\He again fills his glass, and con- 
tinues to speak as he holds it zip. 

Fill round, my friends — here is a treacher- 
ous friend, now, 

Smiles in your face, yet seeks to steal the 
jewel, 

Which is distinction between man and 
brute — 

I mean our reason ; this he does, and 
smiles. 

But are not all friends treacherous? One 
shall cross you 

Even in your dearest interests — one shall 
slander you — 

This steal your daughter, that defraud 
your purse ; 

But tliis gay flask of Bordeaux will but 
borrow 

Your sense of mortal sorrows for a season, 

And leave, instead, a gay delirium. 

Methinks my brain, unused to such gay 
visitants, 

The influence feels already! — we will 
revel ! — 

Our banquet shall be loud ! — it is our last. 

KatJeen, thy song. 
Kat. Not now, my lord — I mean to 
sing to-night 

For this same moderate, grave, and rever- 
end clergyman ; 

I'll keep my voice till then. 

Ele. Your round refusal shows but cot- 
tage breeding. 
Kat. Ay, my good aunt, for I was cot- 
tage-nurtured, 

And taught, I think, to prize my own wild 
will 

Abcve all sacrifice to compliment. 

Here is a huntsman — in his eyes I read it. 

He" sings the martial song my uncle loves. 

What time fierce Claver'se with his Cava- 
liers, 

Abjuring the new change of government. 

Forcing his fearless way through timorous 
friends, 

And enemies as timorous, left the capital 

7.'o rouse in James's cause the distant 
Highlands. 

Have you ne'er heard the song, my noble 
uncle ? 
Osw^. Have I not heard, wench? — It 
was I rode next him — 

Tis thirty summers since — rode by his 
rein ; 



We marched on through the alarmed city, 
As sweeps the osprey through a flock of 

gulls, 
Who scream and flutter, but dare no re- 
sistance 
Against the bold sea-empress. They did 

murmur. 
The crowds before us, in their sullen wrath, 
And those whom we had pass'd, gathering 

fresh courage, 
Cried havoc in the rear — we minded them 
E'en as the brave bark minds the bursting 

billows, 
Which, yielding to her bows, burst on hei 

sides, 
And ripple in her wake. — Sing me that 

strain, ( To Leo.) 
And thou shalt have a meed I seldom 

tender, 
Because they're all I have to give — my 

thanks. 
Leo. Nay, if you'll bear with what I 

cannot help, 
A voice that's rough with hollowing to tho 

hounds, 
I'll sing the song even as old Rowland 

taught me. 

SONG. 

Air,—" The Bonnets of Bonny Dutidee.^ 

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se 

who spoke, 
" Ere the King's crown shall fall, there 

are crowns to be broke : 
So let each Cavalier who loves honor and 

me. 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up 

my can, 
Come saddle your horses, and call 

up your -mem ; 
Come open the West Port, and let 

me gang free. 
And it's room for the bonnets of 

bonny Dundee ! " 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 

street. 
The bells are rung backward, the drums 

they are beat ; 
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just 

e'en let him be, 
The Gude Town is weel quit of that DeiJ 

of Dundee." 

Come fill up my cup, &c 



548 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



As iie rode down the sanct'fied bends of 

the Bow, 
lik carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 
But the young plants of grace they look'd 

couthie and slee, 
Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny 

Dundee ! 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass- 
market was cramm'd, 

As if half the West had set tryst to be 
hang'd, 

There was spite in each look, there was 
tear in each e'e, 

As tliey watch'd for the bonnets of Bonny 
Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, &c. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and 

had spears 
And lancj-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; 
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the 

causeway was free, 
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cnp, &c. 

He spurr'cl to the foot of the proud Castle 

rock, 
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 

spoke, 
*'Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 

twa words or three, 
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dun 

dee." 

Come fill up my cup, &c. 

The Gordon demands of him which way 
h: goes — 

" Wh re'er shall direct me the shade of 
Montrose ! 

I'our Grace in short space shall hear tid- 
ings of me, 

Or that low Hes the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c . 

** There are hills beyond Pentland, and 
lands beyond Forth, 

li there's lords in the Lowlands, there's 
chiefs in the North ; 

There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 
sand times three. 

Will cry hotgh .' for the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 



" There's brass on the target of barken'd 

bull-hide ; 
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles 

beside ; 
The brass shall be burnish'd, the steel 

shall flash free. 
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

" Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 

rocks ! — 
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the 

fox ! — 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of 

your glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet 

and me I '' 

Come fill up my cup, &c. 

He waved his proud hand, and the trum- 
pets were blown, 

The kettle-drums clash'd, and the horse- 
men rode on, 

Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermis- 
ton's lee. 

Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny 
Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can. 
Come saddle the horses, and call up 

the men. 
Come open your gates, and let me 

gae free, 
For it's up with the bonnets of 

Bonny Dundee ! 

Ele. Katleen, do thou sing now. Thy 

uncle's cheerful ; 
We must not let his humor ebb again. 
K.\t. But I'll do better, aunt, than if I 

sung. 
For Flora can sing blithe ; so can this 

huntsman, 
As he has shown e'en now ; let them duet 

It. 
Osw. Well, huntsman, we must give to 

freakish maiden 
The freedom ot her fancy — Raise the 

carol, 
And Flora, if she can, will join the meas» 

ure. 

SONG. 
When friends are met o'er merry cheer, 
And lovely eyes arc lauglung near, 
And in the goblet's bosom clear 
The cares of day are drown'd ; 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



349 



When puns are made, and bumpers quaff'd, 
And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft, 
And Mirth his jovial laugh -has laugh'd, 

Then is our banquet crown" d, 
Ah gay, 

Then is our banquet crown'd. 

When glees are sung, and catches troll'd, 
And bashfulness grows bright and bold, 
And beauty is no longer cold. 

And age no longer dull ; 
When chimes are brief, and cocks do crow, 
To tell us it is time to go, 
Yet how to part we do not know. 

Then is our feast at full, 
Ah, gav, 

Then is our feast at full. 

Osw. {rises xvith his ctip in his hand) — 
Devorgoil's feast is full— Drink to the 
pledge ! 

yA tremendous burst of thunder 
follow s these rvords of the So>ig , 
and the Lightning should seem 
to strike the suit of black Armor, 
which falls tvith a crash. All 
rise iJi surprise atid fear except 
GULLCRAMMER, 2vho tumbles 
over backwards, and lies still. 
Osw. That sounded like the judgment- 
peal — the roof 
Still trembles with the volley. 

DuR. Happy those, 

Who are prepared to meet such fearful 

summons. 
Leonard, what dost thou there ?• 

Leo. {supporting Flo. ) The duty of 
a man — 
Supporting innocence. Were it the final 

call, 
I were not misemploy'd. 
Osv\r. The armor of my grandsire hath 
fall'n down, 
And old saws have spoke truth. — {Musing.) 

The fiftieth year— 
Devorgoil's feast at fullest ! What to 

think of it 

Leo. (lifting a scroll which had fallen 
with the armor) — 
This may inform us. — {Attempts to read 
the manuscript^ shakes his head, and 
gnes it to Oswald) — 
But not to eyes unlearn'd it tells its tidings. 
Osw. Hawks, hoinds, and revelling 
consumed the hour.s 
I should have given to study, {Looks at 
the manuscript.) 



These characters I spell not more than 
thou. 

They are not of our day, and, as I tliink, 

Not of our language. — Where's our 
scholar now, 

So forward at tiie banquet "i Is he laggard 

Upon ^ point of learning ? 
Leo, Here is the man of letter'd dig- 
nity, 

E'en in a piteous case. {Drags Gull- 

CRAMMER/(?;-U'«rrt' ) 

Osw. Art waking, craven .? Canst thou 
read this scioU ? 
Or art thou only learn'd in sousing swine's 

flesh. 
And prompt in eating it ? 
GuL. Eh — ah ! — oh — ho ! — Have you 
no better time 
To tax a man with riddles, than the 

moment 
When he scarce knows whether he's dead 
or living ,? 
Osw. Confound the pedant .? — Can you 
read the scroll, 
Or can you not, sir .? If you can^ pronounce 
Its meaning speedily. 

GuL. Can I read it, quotha I 

When at our learned University, 
I gain'd first premium for Hebrew learn- 

.ing — 
Which was a pound of high-dried Scottish 

snuff, 
.'\nd half a peck of onions, with a bushel 
Of curious oatmeal,— our learned Principal 
Did say, " Melchisedek, thou canst do any- 
thing!" 
Now comes he with his paltry scroll of 

parchment. 
And, ^' Can you read it.?" — Alter -such 

affront. 
The point is, if I will. 

Osw. A point soon solved, 

Unless you choose to sleep «mong the 

frogs ; 
For look you, sir, there is the chamber 

window, — 
Beneath it lies the lake. 
Ele. Kind master GuUcrammer, be- 
ware my husband. 
He brooks no contradiction — 'tis his fault, 
And in his wrath he's dangerous. 

GUL. {looks at the scroll, and mutters as 
if reading) — 
Hashgaboth hotch-potch — 
A simple matter this to make a rout of — 
Ten rashersen bacon, mish-mash venison^ 



IS' 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Sausagian soused-face — *Tis a simple 

catalogue 
Of our small supper — made by the grave 

sage 
Whose presc^ence knew this night that we 

should feast 
On venison, hash'd sow's face, and saus- 
ages, 
And hung his steel coat for a supper bell. 
E'en let us to our provender agam, 
For it is written, we shall finish it, 
And bless our stars the lightning left it us. 
Osw This must be impudence or ignor- 
ance! 
The spirit of rough Erick stirs within me, 
And 1 will knock thy brains out if thou 

falterest 1 
Expound the scroll to me ! 

GuL. You're over-hasty ; 

And yet you may be right too — 'Tis 

Samaritan, 
, Now I look closer on't, and I did take it 
For simple Hebrew. 

DuR. 'Tis Hebrew to a simpleton. 
That we see plainly, friend — Give me the 
scroll. 
GuL. Alas, jjood friend! what would 

you do with it .'' 
D u R . ( lakes it frovt h hn ) . 
My best to read it, sir — The character is 

Saxon, 
Used at no distant date within this dis- 
trict; 
And thus the tenor runs — not in Samaritan, 
Nor simple Hebrew, but in wholesome 
English : — 
*' 1 )evorgoil, thy bright moon waneth. 
And the rust thy harness staineth ; 
Servile guests the banquet soil 
Of the once proud Devorgoil. 
But should Black Erick's armor fall, 
Look for guests shall scare you all ! 
They shall come ere peep of day, — 
Wake and watch, and hope and pray." 
Kat. {fo Flo.) Here is fine foolery! 
An old wall shakes 
'At a loud thunder-clap — down comes a suit 
Of ancient armor, when its wasted braces 
Were all too rotten to sustain its weight — 
A beggar cries out, Miracle !— and your 

father, 
Weighing the importance of his name and 

lineage. 
Must needs believe the dotard ! 

Flo Mock not, I pray you ; this may 
be too serious. 



Kat. And if I live till morning, I will 
have 
The power to tell a better tale of wonder 
Wrought on wise Gullcrammer Til go 
prepare me. [Exit. 

Flo. I have not Katleen's spirit, yet I 
hate 
This Gullcrammer too heartily to stop 
Any disgrace that's hasting towards h;m. 
Osw. (/o wJiom the Beggar has ieen 
agai}i rcaditig the scroll). 
'Tis a strange prophecy ! — The silver 

moon, 
Now waning sorely, is our ancient bear- 
ing- 
Strange and unfitting guests — 

GuL. {interruptmg him). Ay, ay, the 

matter 

Is, as you say, all moonshine in the water. 

Osw. How mean you, sir t (threaiau7ig). 

GuL. To show that I can rhyme 

With yonder bluegown. Give me bieath 

and time, 
I will mamtain, in spite of his pretence. 
Mine exposition had the better sense — 
It spoke good victuals and • increase of 

cheer ; 
And his, more guests to eat what we have 

here — 
An increment right needless. 

Osw. Get thee gone ! 

To kennel, hound I 

GuL. The hound will have his bone. 

[ Takes up the platter of meat., and a flask. 

Osw. Flora, show him his chamber — 

take him hence, 

Or, by the name I bear, I'll see his brains 1 

GuL. Ladies, good-night! — I spare you, 

sir, the pains. 

\Exit., lighted by Flora, with a 
lamp. 
Osw. The owl is fled.— I'll not to bed 
to-night ; 
There is some change impending o'er this 

house. 
For good or ill. I would some holy man 
Were here, to counsel us what we should do I 
Yon witless thin-faced gull is but a cassock 
Stuff'd out with chaff and straw. 

DuR. {assumitig an air of dignity)^ I 
have been wont, 
In other days, to pomt to erring mortals 
The lock which they should anchor on. 

\_He holds rip a Cross — the rest take 
a posture of devotion^ and the 
SceKC closes. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



551 



ACT III.— SCENFl. 

A ruinous Anteroom in the Castle. 

Enter Katleen, fantastically dressed to 

play the character of Cocklcdcjnoy, with 

the visor itt her hand. 

Kat, I've scarce had time to glance at 

my sweet person, 

Yet this much could I see, with half a 

glance, 
My elfish dress becomes me — I'll not 

mask me, 
Till I have seen Lance Blackthorn. Lance, 
1 say ! ICalls. 

Blackthorn, make haste ! 

Enter BhACKTHOR-H, half dressed as 

Owlspiegle. 
Bla. Here am I — Blackthorn in the 
upper half, 
Much at your service; but my nether parts 
Are goblinized and Owlspiegled. I had 

much ado 
To get these trankums on. I judge Lord 

Erick 
Kept no good house, and starved his 
quondam barber. 
Kat. Peace, ass, and hide you — Gull- 
crammer is coming ; 
He left the hall before, but then took fright, 
And e'en sneak'd back. The Lady Flora 

lights him — 
Trim occupation for her ladyship ! 
Had you seen Leonard, when she left the 

hall 
On such fine errand ! 
Bla. This Gullcrammer shall have a 
bob extraordinary 
For my good comrade's sake. — But tell 

me, Katleen, 
What dress is this of yours ? 
Kat. a page's, fool ! 

Bla. I am accounted no great scholar. 
But 'tis a page that I would fain peruse 
A little closer. [^Approaches her. 

Kat. Put on your spectacles, 

And try if you can read it at this distance, 
For you shall come no nearer. 

Bl.\. But is there nothing, then, save 
rank imposture. 
In all these tales of goblimyat Devorgoil ? 
Kat. My aunt's grave lord thinks other- 
wise, supposing 
Tliat his great name so interests the 

Heavens, 
That miracles must needs bespeak its fall. 



I would that I were in a lowly cottage. 
Beneath the greenwood, on its v/alls no 
armor 

To court the levin-bolt 

Bla. And a kind husbind, Katleen, 

To ward such dangers as must needs come 

nigh.— , 
My father's cottage stands so low and lone, 
Th.it you would think it solitude itself ; 
The greenwood shields it from the northern 

blast, 
And, in the woodbine round its latticed 

casement, 
The linnet's sure to build the earliest nest 
in all the forest. 
Kat. Peace, you fool, — they come. 

[Flora lights Gullcrammer 
across the Stage. 
Kat. {when they have passed) — Away 
with you ! 
On with your cloak — be ready at the signal. 
Bla. And shall we talk of that same 
cottage, Katleen, 
At better leisure ? I have much to say 
In favor of my cottage. 

Kat. ^ If you will be talking. 

You know I can't prevent you. 

Bla. That's enough. 

{Aside.) I shall have leave, I see, to spell 

the page 
A little closer, when the due time comes. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to Gullcrammer's sleeping 
Apartment. He enters^ tishered in by 
Flora, -who sets on the table a flask, 
with the lamp. 

Flo. A flask, in case your Reverence 

be athirsty ; 

A light, in case your Reverence be afear'd ; — 

And so, sweet slumber to your Reverence. 

GuL. Kind Mistress Flora, will you? — 

eh I eh ! eh ! 
Flo. Will I what ? 
GuL, Tarry a little? 
Flo. {smiling). Kin^ Master Gull 
crammer. 
How can you ask me aught so unbecoming ? 
GuL. Oh, fie, fie, fie ! — Believe me, 
Mistress Flora, 
'Tis not for that — but being guided 

through 
Such dreary galleries, stairs, and suites of 

looms. 
To this same cubicle, I'm somewhat loth 



S5^^ 



SCOTJ-'S POETICAL IVO/^JCS. 



To bid adieu to pleasant cunipany. 

Flo. a flattering coi:ipli:i">ent I — In 

plain truth, you are trighten'd. 
G u L. W'iiat ! frighten'ci ? — J — I — am 

not timorous. 
Flo. Perhaps you've heard this is our 
haunted chamber 1 
But tlien it is our best — Your Reverence 

knows, 
That in all tales which turn upon a ghost. 
Your traveller belated has the luck 
To enjoy the haunted room — it is a rule: — 
To some it were a hardsliip, but to you, • 

Who are a scholar, and not timorous 

GuL. I did not say I was not timorous, 
I said 1 was not temerarious. — 
ril to the hail again. 

Flo. You'll do your pleasure, 

But you have somehow moved my father's 

anger, 
And you had better meet our playful 

Owlspiegle — 
So is our goblin call'd — then facQ Lord 
» Oswald. 

Gul, Owlspiegle? — 
It is an uncouth and outlandish name, 
And in mine ears sounds fiendTfeh. 

Flo. Hush, hush, hush I 
Perhaps he hears us now — {in an under 

tone) — A merry spirit ; 
None of your elves that pinch folks black 

and blue, 
For lack of cleanliness. 

Gul. As for that, Mistress Flora, 
My taffeta doublet hath been duly brush'd 
My shirt hebdomadal put on this morning. 
Flo. Why, you need fear no goblins. 
But this Owlspiegle 
Is of another class ; — yet has his frolics ; 
Cuts hair, trims beards, and plays amid 

his antics 
The office of a sinful mortal barber. 
Such is at least the rumor. 

Gul. He will not cut my clothes, or 
scar my face, 
Or draw my blood ? 

Flo. Enormities like these 

Were never charged against him. 
Gul. And, Mistress Flora, wouW you 
smile on me. 
If, prick'd by the fond hope of youi a;^- 

proval, 
I should endure this venture ? 

Flo. I do hope 

I shall have cause to smile. 
Gul. Well ! in that hope 



I will embrace the achievement for thy 

sake. \Shc is going. 

Yet, stay, stay, stay ! — on second thoughts 

I will not — 
I've thought on it, and will the mortal 

cudgel 
Rather endure than face the ghostly razor \ 
Your crab-tree's tough but blunt, — youi 

razor's polish'd. 
But, as the proverb goes, 'tis cruel sharp. 
I'll to thy father, and unto his pleasure 
Submit these destined shoulders. 

Flo. But you shall not— 

Believe me, sir, you shall not; he is 

desperate. 
And better far be trimm'd by ghost or 

goblin, 
Than by my sire in anger ; — there are stores 
Of hidden treasure, too, and Heaven 

knows what. 
Buried among these ruins — you shall stay. 
{Apart.) And if indeed there be such 

sprite as Owlspiegle, 
And, lacking him, that thy fear plague 

thee not 
Worse than a goblin, I have missVt ir.y 

purpose, 
Which else stands good in either case. — 

Good-night, sir. 
•' ' [£'a77, aitd double locks the door, 

Gul. Nay, hold ye, hold 1 Nay, gentle 

Mistress Flora, 
Wherefore this ceremony ? She has Icck'd 

me in, 
And left me to the goblin ! — {Listening.) 

So, so, so ! 
I hear her light foot trip to such a distance, 
That I believe the castle's breadth c" ivides 

me 
From human company. — I'm ill at ease- 
But if this citadel {Laying his hand on his 

stomach) were better victual'd. 
It would be better mann'd. 

\Sits down and drinks. 
She has a footstep light, and taper ankic. 

[Chuckles. 
Aha ! that ankle I yet, confound it too, 
But for those charms Mclchisedek had been 
Snug in his bed at Mucklewhame — 1 say. 
Confound her footstep, and her instep too. 
To use a cobbler's phrase. — There I was 

quaint. 
Now, what to do in this vile circumrtance. 
To watch or go to bed, I can't determine ; 
W-^re 1 a-bed, the ghost might catch me 

napping^ 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



55: 



And if I watch, my terrors will increase 
As ghostly hours approach I'll to my bed 
E'en in my taffeta doublet, shrink my head 
Beneath the clothes — leave the lamp burn- 
ing there. 
And trust to fate the issue. 

\Sds it on the table. 
[//<? lays aside his cloak, and 
brushes it, as from habit, start- 
ing at every rnoinejit ; ties a nap- 
kin over his head ; then shrinks 
beneath the bed clothes. He 
starts once or ixvice, and at 
l''.ngth seems to go to sleep. A 
bell tolls ONE. He leaps tip in 
his bed, 
GuL. 1 had just coax'd myself to sweet 
forgetfulness, 
And that confounded bell — I hate all bells, 
Except a dinner-bell — and yet 1 lie, too, — 
1 love the bell that soon shall tell the parish 
Of Gabblegoose, Melchisedek's incum- 
bent— 
And "shall the future minister of Gabble- 
goose, 
Wiiom his parishioners will soon require 
To exorcise their ghosts, detect their 

witches, 
Lie shivering in his bed for a pert goblin, 
AVhom, be he switch'd or cocktail'd, horn'd 

or poll'd, 
A few tight Hebrew words will soon send 

packing ? 
Tush I I will rouse the parson up withm me, 

And bid defiance [A distant noise). 

In the name of Heaven, 
What sounds are these ? — O Lord ! this 
comes of rashness ! 

[^Drazvs his head down tinder the 
bed-clothes. 

Duet without, between Owlspiegle ajid 

COCKLEDEMOY. 

Owls. Cockledemoy, , 

My boy, my boy, 
CocKL. Here, father, here. 

Owls. Now the pole-star's red and burn- 
ing. 
And the witch's spindle turning. 
Appear, appear I 
GuL. {zvho has again raised himself , and 
listened with great terror to the 
Duct )— 
! have heard of the devil's dam before, 
But never of his child. Now Heaven 
deliver me. 



The Papists have the better of us tnere, — 
They have their Latin prayers, cut and 

dried, 
And pat for such occasion. — I can think 
On naught but the vernacular. 

Owls. Cockledemoy ! 

My boy, my boy, 

We'll sport us here— 
CoCKL. Our gambols play, 

Like elve and fay ; 
Owls. And domineer, 

Both Laugh, frolic, and frisk, till the 

morning appear. 
CocKL. Lift latch — open clasp — 

Shoot bolt — and burst hasp ! 

\The door opens with violence. 
Enter Blackthorn as Q\^\.- 
sviUGV.^, fantastically dressed as 
a Spanish Barber, tall, thin, ema- 
ciated, and ghostly, Katleen, 
as Cockledemoy, attends as his- 
page. All their manners, io7ies^ 
and motions, are fantastic, as 
tJiose of Goblins. They make two 
or three times the circuit of the 
Room, without seeming to see 
Gullcrammer. They then re-- 
siune their Chaunt, or Recitative. 

Owls. Cockledemoy ! 

My boy, my boy, 
What wilt thou do that will give 

thee joy ? 
Wilt thou ride on the midnighl 
owl ? 
CocKL. No; for the weather is stormy 

and foul. 
Owls. Cockledemoy ! 

My boy, my boy, 
What wilt thou do that can give 

thee jov ? 
With a needle for a sword, and a 

thimble for a hat. 
Wilt thou fight a traverse with 
tlie castle cat? 
CoCKL. Oil no ! she has claws, and I like 
not that. 

GuL. I see the devil is a doting father. 
And spoils liis children — 'tis the surest way 
To make cursed imps of them. They see 

me not — 
What will they think on next? It must be 

Gwn'd, 
They have a dainty choice of occupatioas. 



554 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



0WL3. 



Cockledemoy ! 
My boy, rny boy, 
What shall we do that can give 

thee joy? 
Shall we go seek for a cuckoo's 
nest. 
CocKL. That's best, that's best I 
Both. About, about, 

Like an elvish scout, 
The cuckoo's a gull, and we'll soon 

find him out. 
They search the room with mops 
and mows. At length Cockle- 
demoy jumps on the bed. G u ll- 
CRAMMER raises himself half up ^ 
supporti7ig himself by his hands. 
Cockledemoy does the same, 
and grins at him, then skips 
from the bed, and runs to Owl- 

SPIEGLE, 

Cockl. I've found the nest, 

And in it a guest. 
With a sable cloak and a taffeta 

vest ; 
He must be wash'd, and trimm'd, 

and dress'd. 
To please the eyes he loves the 
best. 
Owls. That's best, that's best. 

Both. He must be shaved, and trimm'd, 
and dress'd. 
To please the eyes he loves the 
best. 
[ They arrajtge shaving things on 
the table, and sing as they prepare 
them. 
Both. Know that all of the humbug, the 
bite, and the buz, 
Of the make-believe world, be- 
comes forfeit to us. 
Owis (sharpening his razor) — 

The sword this is made of was lost 

in a fray 
By a fop, who first bullied and then 

ran away ; 
And the strap, from the hide of a 

lame racer, sold 
By Lord Match, to his friend, for 
some hundreds in gold 
Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, and 
the buz, 
Of the make-believe world, be- 
comes forfeit to us. 
Cockl. {placing the napkin) — 

And this cambric napkin, so white 
and so fair, 



At an usurer's funeral I stole from 
the heir. 
\Drops something from a vial, as 
going to make suds. 
This dewdrop I caught from one 

eye of his mother. 
Which wept while she ogled the 
parson with t'other. 
Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 
and the buz, 
Of the make-believe world, be- 
comes forfeit to us. 
Owls, {arranging the lather and the 
basin) — 
My soap-ball is of the mild alkali 

made, 
Which the soft dedicator employs 

in his trade ; 
And it froths with the pith of a 

promise, that's sworn 
By a lover at night, and forgot on 
the morn. 
Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 
and the buz, 
Of the make-believe world, be- 
comes forfeit to us. 
Halloo, halloo, 
The blackcock crew, 
Thrice shriek'd hath the owl, 
thrice croak'd hath the raven. 
Here ho Master Gullcrammer, 
rise and be shaven ? 

Da capo 
GuL {who has been observing them). 
I'll pluck a spirit up , they're merry gob- 
lins. 
And will deal mildly I will soothe their 

humor , 
Besides, my beard lacks trimming. 

\He rises from his bed, and ad- 
vances ivith great symptoms of 
trepidation, but affecting an air 
of composure. The Goblins re- 
teive him with fantastic cere- 
mony. 
Gentlemen, 'tis your will I should be 

trimm'd — 
E'en do your pleasure. 

[ They point to a seat — he sits. 

Think, howsoe'er, 

Of me as one who hates to see his 

blood ; 
Therefore I do beseech you, signior, 
Be gentle in your craft. I know those 
barbers, 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



555 



One would have harrows driven across his 

visnomy, 
Rather than they should touch it with a 

razor. 

OWLSPIEGLE shaves Gullcrammer ■while 

COCKLEDEMOY StngS. 

P'ather never started hair, 
Shaved too close, or left too bare- 
Father's razor slips as glib 
As from courtly tongue a fib. 
Whiskers, mustache, he can trim in 
Fashion meet to please the women , 
Sharp's his blade, perfumed his lather! 
Happy those are trimm'd by father ! 
GuL. That's a good boy. 1 love to hear 
a child 
Stand for his father, if he were the devil. 

\^He motions to rise. 
Craving your pardon, sir. — What ! sit 

again ? 
My hair lacks not your scissors. 

[OwLSPiEGLE insists on his sitting. 
Nay, if you're peremptory, I'll ne'er dis- 
pute it, 
Nor eat the cow and choke upon the tail — 
E'en trim me to your fashion. 

fOvifLSPiEGLE cuts his hair ^ and 
shaves hts head, ridiculously. 
COCKLEDEMOV (.sings as liefore). 
Hair-breadth 'scapes, and hair-breadth 

snares, 
Hair-brain'd follies, ventures, cares, 
Part when father clips your hairs. 
If there is a hero frantic, 
Or a lover too romantic ;— 
If threescore seeks second spouse, 
Or fourteen lists lover's vows. 
Bring them here — for a Scotch boddle, 
Owlspiegle shall trim their noddle. 

[ They take the napkin from about 
Gullcrammer's 7ieck. He snakes 
bows of acknowledgment, ivhich 
they return fantastically, and 
stng— 
Thrice crow'd hath the blackcock, thrice 

croak'd hath the raven. 
And Master Melchisedek Gullcrammer's 
shaven ! 

GuL. My friends, you are too musical for 

me. 
But though I cannot cope with you in song, 
I would, in humble prose, inquire of 

you, 
If that you will permit me to acquit 



Even with the barber's pence the barber's 
service .'' [ They shake their heads. 

Or if there is aught else that I can do for 
you. 

Sweet Master Owlspiegle, or your lovmg 
child, 

The hopeful Cockle'moy .? 

CocKL. Sir, you have been trimm'd of 
late, 
Smooth's your chin, and bald your pate; 
Lest cold rheums should work you harm. 
Here's a cap to keep you warm. 

GuL. Welcome, as Fortunatus' wishing 
cap, 
For 'twas a cap that I was wishing for, 
(There I was quaint in spite of mortal 
terror. ) 

lAs he puts on the cap, a pair oj 
ass's ears disengage themselves. 
Upon my faith, it is a dainty head-dress, 
And might become an alderman ! — Thanks, 

sweet Monsieur, ^ 

Thou'rt a considerate youth. 

[Both Goblins bow with ceremony 
to Gullcrammer, who returns 
their salutation. Owlspiegle 
descends by the trap-door. 
CoCKLEDEMOY Springs out at 
window. 

SONG {witho7it). 
Owls Cockledemoy, my hope, my care, 

Where art thou now, O tell me where? 
CocKL. Up in the sky, 

On the bonny dragonfly, 
Come, father, ccme you too— 
She has four wings and strength enow. 
And her long body has room for two. 
GuL. Cockledemoy now is a naughty 
brat- 
Would have the poor old stiff -rump'd devil, 

his father, 
Peril his fiendish neck. All boys are 
thoughtless. 

SONG. 

Owls. Which way didst thou take ? 
CocKL. I have fallen in the lake — 

Help, father, lor Beelzebub's sake. 
GuL. The imp is drown'd — a strange 
death for a devil I 
O, may all boys take warning, and be 

civil ; 
Respect their loving sires, endure a chiding, 
Nor roam by night on dragonflies a-riding 1 



556 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



COCKL. {siJigs). Now merrily, merrily, 
row 1 to shore, 

My bark is a bean-shell, a straw for 
an oar. 
Owl. {sings). My life, my joy, 

My Cockledemoy ! 
GUL. I can bear this no longer — thus 

children are spoil'd. 
[Sit ikes info the tu}ie.) — Master Owl- 

spiegle, hoy ! 
He deserves to be whipp'd, little Cockle- 
demoy ! 
\ Their voices are heard as if dying away. 
GuL. They're gone! — Now, am I 

scared, or am I not 1 
I think the very desperate ecstasy 
Ql fear has given me courage. This is 

strange, now ! 
When they were here, I was not half so 

Irighten'd 
As now they are gone — they were a sort of 

company. 
What a strange thing is use ! — A horn, a 

claw, 
The tip of a fiend's tail, was wont to scare 

me , — 
Now am I with the devil hand and glove; 
His e:oap has lather'd, and his razor shaved 

mc ; 
Tvc joined him in a catch, kept time and 

tune, 
Could dine with him, nor ask for a long 

spoon ; 
And if I keep not better company, 
What Will become of me when 1 shall die ? 

{^Exit. 

Scene HI. 
A Gothic Hall, xvaste arid rttinons. The 
moonlight is at times seen- through the 
shafted ivindows. Enter Katleen 
and Blackthorn — They have thrown 
of]' the marc ludicrous parts of their dis- 
guise. 
Kat. This way — this way. Was ever 

fool so gull'd ! 
Bla. I play'd the barber better than I 
thought for. 
Well, I've an occupation in reserve. 
When the long-bow and merry musket 

fail me. — 
But, hark ye, pretty Katleen. 

Kat What should I hearken to.-' 

Bla. Art thou not afraid, 
Jn these wild halls while playing feigned 
goblins, 



That we may meet with real ones ."* 

Kat. Not a jot 

My spirit is too light, my heart too boid, 
To fear a visit from the other world. 

Bla. But is not this the place, the very 
hall 
In which men say that Oswald's grand- 
father. 
The black Lord Erick, walks his penance 

round .'' 
Credit me, Katleen, these half-moulder'd 

columns 
Have in their ruin something very fiendish. 
And, if you'll take an honest friend's ad- 
vice, 
The sooner that you change their shatter'd 

splendor 
For the snug cottage that I told you of, 
Believe me, it will prove the blither dwell- 
ing. 
Kat. If I e'er see that cottage, honest 
Blackthorn, 
Believe me, it shall be from other motive 
Than tear of Erick's spectre. 

\^A rustling sound is iicard. 
Bla I heard a rustling sound— 

Upon my life, there's something in the hall, 
Katleen, besides us two ! 

Kat. a yeoman thou, 

A forester, and frighten'd ! I am sorry 
I gave the fool's-cap to poor Gullcrammer, 
And let thy headgo bare. 

[ The same rushing sound is repeated. 
Bla. Why, are you mad, or hear you 

not the sound.? 
Kat. And if I do, I take small heed of 
it. 
Will you allow a maiden to be bolder 
Than you, with beard on chin and sword 
at girdle ? 
Bla. Nay, if I had my sword, I would 
not care; 
Though I ne'er heard of master of defence, 
So active at his weapon as to brave 
The devil, or a ghost— See ! see! see 
yonder ! 

[A Figure is tviperfectly seen be- 
tween tjvo of the pillars. 
Kat There's somethino: moves, that's 
certain, and the moonlight, 
Chased by the flitting gale, is too imperfect 
To show its form ; but, in the name ot God, 
I'll venture on it boldly. 

Bla. • Wilt thou so? 

Were I alo.ie, now, I were strongly 
temiilcd 



THE DOO?.i OF DEVORGOIL, 



557 



To trust my heels for safety ; but witli 

thee, 
Be it fiend or fairy, I'll take risk to meet it. 
Kat. It stands full in our path, and we 
must pass it, 
Or tarry here all night. 

Bla. In its vile company .? 

\^As they advance toxvards the 
Figure, it is vi07-e flaitily dis- 
tinguished, which might, I think, 
be contrived by raising successive 
screens of crape. The Figure is 
wrapped in a long robe, like the 
mantle of a Hermit, or Palmer. 
Pal. Ho ! ye^vho thread by night these 
wildering scenes, 
In garb of those who long have slept in 

death, 

Fear ye the com-pany of those you imitate? 

Bla. This is the devil, Katleen, let us 

fly ! [Runs off. 

Kat. I will not fly — why should I ? I\Iy 

nerves shake 

To look on this strange vision, but my 

heart 
Partakes not the alarm. — If thou dost 

come in Heaven's name, 
in Heaven's name art thou welcome ! 

Pal. I come, by Heaven permitted. 
Quit this castle : 
There is a fate on't — if for good or evil, 
Brief space shall soon determine. In that 

fate, 
If good, by lineage thou canst nothing 

claim, 
If evil, much may'st suffer.- -Leave these 
precincts. 
Kat. Whate'er thou art, be answer'd — 
Know, 1 will not 
Desert the kinswoman who train'd my 

youth ; 
Know, that I will not quit my friend, my 

Flora ; 
Know, that I will not leave the aged man 
Whose, roof has shelter'd me. This is my 

resolve — 
If evil come, I aid my friends to bear it ; 
If good, my part shall be to see them 

prosper, 
A portion in their happiness from which 
No fiend can bar me. 

Pal. Maid, before thy courage, 

Firm built on innocence, even beings of 

nature, 
More powerful far than thine, give place 
and way \ 



Take then this key, and wait the event 
witli courage. 
\He drops the key. — He disappears 
gradually— the jnoonlight Jailing 
at the same time. 
Kat. {after a pause). Whate'er it was, 
'tis gone ! My head turns round — 
The blood that lately fortified my heart 
I Now eddies in full torrent to my brain, 
And makes wild work with reason. I wiU 

haste. 
If that my steps .can bear me so far safe, 
To living company. What if 1 meet it 
Again in the long aisle, or vaulted pa'isage .' 
And if I do, the strong support that bora 

me 
Through this appalling interview, agaiii 
Shall strengthen and uphold me. 

\As she steps forward, she stumbles 
over the key^ 
What's this.? The key? — there may be 

mystery in't. 
I'll to my kinswoman, when this dizzy fit 
Will give me leave to choose my way aright. 
[She sits down exhausted. 

Re-enter BLACKTHORN, with a drawn 
sword and torch. 

Bla. Katleen ! — what, 7\:ttleen I — . 

V.'hat a wretch was I 
To leave her I--Katleen ! — I am weapon'd 

now. 
And fear nor dog nor devii —She replies 

not! 
Beast that I was ! — nay, worse than beast I 

The stag, 
As timorous r.s he is, fights for his hind. 
What's to ht done ?— I'll search this cursed 

castle 
From dungeon to the baltiements ; if I find 

her not, 
I'll fling me from the highes<^ pinnacle-- 
Katleen {zvho has somewhat gathered 

her spirits in consequence of his en* 

trance, comes behind and touches him ; 

he starts). Brave sir ! 

I'll spare you that rash leap-- You're a 

bold woodsman ! 
Surely I hope that from this night hence- 
forward 
You'll never kill a hare, since you're akin 

to them, 
O I could laugh — but that my f.e.ad'.') so 

dizzy. 
Bla. Lean on me, Katleen "By my 

honest word 



558 



SCO TT 'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 



I thought you close behind — I was sur- 
prised, 

Not a jot frightened. 

Kat. Thou art a fool to ask me to thy 
cottage, 

And then to show me at what slight ex- 
pense 

Of manhood I might master thee and it. 
Bla. I'll take the risk of that— This 
goblin business 

Came rather unexpectedly ; the best horse 

Will start at sudden sights. Try me again, 

And if I prove not true to bonny Katleen, 

Hang me in mine own bowstring. 

\_Exeu7it. 

Scene IV. 
The Scene returns to the Apartment at the 
beginning of Act Second. Oswald 
and DURWARD are discovered with 
Eleanor, Flora, and Leonard — 
DuRW.'VRD shuts a Prayer-book., which 
he seems to have been reading. 

DuR. 'Tis true— the difference betwixt 
the churches, 
Which zealots love to dwell on, to the wise 
Of either flock are of far less importance 
Than those great truths to which all 

Christian men 
Subscribe with equal reverence. 

Osw. We thank thee, father, for the 
holy office, 
Still best performed when the pastor's 

tongue 
Is echo to his breast : of jarring creeds 
It ill beseems a layman's tongue to 

speak — 
Where have you stow'd yon prater ? 

Lr<? Flora. 
Flo. Safe in the goblin-chamber. 
Ele. » The goblin-chamber ! 

Maiden, wert thou frantic.'' — if his Rever- 
ence 
Have suffer'd harm by waspish Owlspiegle, 
Be sure thou shalt abye it. 

Flo. Here he comes. 

Can answer for himself ! 

£«/^r Gu LLC rammer in the fashion in 
which Owlspiegle had put him ; hav- 
ing the fool's-cap on his head, and towel 
about Ids Jieck, -G^c. His ma)iner through 
the scene is wild and extravagant, as if 
the fright had a little affected his brain. 
DuR. A goodly spectacle! — Is there 
gijch a goblin .-' 



(77? Osw.) Or has sheer terror made him 
such a figure.'' 
Osw. There is a sort of wavering tra- 
dition 

Of a malicious imp who teased all 
strangers ; 

My father wont to call him Owlspiegle. 
GuL. Who talks of Owlspiegle t 

He is an honest fellow for a devil. 

So is his son. the hopeful Cockle'moy. 

(Sings.) " My hope, my joy. 

My Cockledemoy ! " 

Leo. The fool's bewitch'd — the goblin 
hath furnish' d him 
A cap which well befits his reverend wis- 
dom. 
Flo, If I could think he had lost iiis 
slender wits, 
I should be sorry for the trick they play'd 
him. 
Leo. O fear him not ; it were a foul re- 
flection 
On any fiend of sense and reputation, 
To filch such petty wares as his poor 
brains. 
DuR, What saw'st thou, sir? — what 

heai"d'st thou ? 
GuL. What was't I saw and heard? 
That which old graybeards, 
Who conjure Hebrew into Anglo-Saxon, 
To cheat starved barons with, can little 
guess at. 
Flo. If he begin so roundly with my 
father, 
His madness is not like to save his bones. 
GuL. Sirs, midnight came, and v;ith it 
came the goblin. 
I had reposed me after some brief study; 
But as the soldier, sleeping in the trench, 
Keeps sword and musket by him, so I had 
My little Hebrew manual prompt for ser- 
vice. 
Flo. Sausagian sotiscd-fate ; that much 
of your Hebrew 
Even I can bear in memory. 

GuL. We counter'd, 

The goblin and myself, even in mid« 

chamber 
And each stepp'd back a pace, as 'twcr» 

to study 
The foe he had to deal with !— I bethought 

me, 
Ghosts ne'er have the first word, and sa i 

took it. 
And fired a volley of round Greek at him 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



559 



He stood his ground, and answer'd in the 

Syriac ; 
I flank'd my Greek with Hebrew, and 

compell'd him — \_A noise heard. 

Osw. Peace, idle prater ! — Hark — what 

sounds are these? 
Amid the growHng of the storm without, 
I hear strange notes of music, and the j 

clash I 

Of coursers' trampling feet. j 

Voices [without). We come, dark riders 1 
of the night, I 

And flit before the dawning light; j 

Hill and valley, far aloof, 
Shake to hear our chargers' hoof ; ! 

Bu not a foot-stamp on the green 
At morn shall show where we have 
been. 

Osw. These must be revellers belated — 
Let them pass on ; the ruin'd halls of 

Devorgoil 
Open to no such guests. — 

[^Flourish of tr2impcts.at a distance^ 
then nearer. 

They sound a summons ; 
What can they lack at this dead hour of 

night ? 
Look out, and see their number, and their 
bearing. 
Leo. {goes tip to the windozv) — 
'Tls strange — one single shadowy form 

alone 
Is hovering on the drawbridge — far apart 
Flit through the tempest banners, horse, 

and riders, 
In darkness lost, or dimly seen by light- 
ning. — 
Hither the figure moves — the bolts re- 
volve — 
The gate uncloses to him. 
Ele. Heaven protect us ! 

The Palmer enters — Gullcrammer 

runs off. 
Osw. Whence, and what art thou? for 

■what end come hither ? 
Pal. I come from a far land, where 
the storm howls not. 
And the sun sets not, to pronounce to thee, 
Oswald of Devorgoil, thy house's fate. 
DuR. I charge thee, in the name we 

late have kneel'd to 

Pal. Abbot of Lanercost, I bid thee 
peace ! 
Uninterrupted let me do mine errand : 



Baron of Devorgoil, son of the bold, the 

proud. 
The warlike and the mighty, wherefore 

wear'st thou 
The habit of a peasant ? Tell me, where- 
fore 
Are thy fair halls thus waste — thy cham- 
bers bare ? — 
Where are the tapestries, where the con- 

quer'd banners. 
Trophies, and glided arms, that deck'd 

the walls 
Of once proud Devorgoil ? 

\_He advances^ and places himself 

where the Armor huiig, so as to 

be nearly in the centre of the 

Scene. 

DuR. Whoe'er thou art — if thou dost 

know so much. 

Needs must thou know 

Osw. Peace ! I will answer here ; to me 
he spoke — 
Mysterious stranger, briefly I reply : 
A peasant's dress befits a peasant's for- 

• tune ; 
And 'twere vain mockery to array these 

walls 
In trophies, of whose memory naught re- 
mains. 
Save that the cruelty outvied the valor 
Of those who wore them. 

Pal. Degenerate as thou art, 

Know'st thou to whom thou say'st this? 

\^He drops his mantle^ and is dis- 
covered armed as nearly as may 
be to the suit which hung on the 
wall ; all express terror. 
Osw. It is himself — the spirit of mine 

Ancestor ! 
Eri. Tjemble not, son, but hear me ! 
\^He strikes the wall ; it op:ns, and 
discovers the Treasure-Chamber. 
There lies piled 
The wealth I brought from wasted Cum- 
berland, 
Enough to reinstate thy ruin'd fortunes.— 
Cast from thine high-born brows that peas- 
ant bonnet, 
Throw from thy noble grasp the peas- 
ant's staff — 
O'er all, v/ithdraW thine hand from that 

mean mate, 
Whom in an hour of reckless desperation 
Thy fortunes cast thee on. This do, 
.\nd be as great as e'er was Devorgoil, 
When Devorgoil was richest ! 



56o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



DUR. Lord Oswald, thou art tempted 
by a fiend, 

Who doth assail thee on thy weakest 
side, — 

Thy pride of lineage, and thy love of 
grandeur. 

Stand fast — resist — contemn his fatal 
offers ! 
Ele. Urge him not, father ; if the sacri- 
fice 

Of Guch a wasted woe-worn wretch as I 
am 

Can save him from the abyss of misery, 

Upon whose verge he's tottering, let me 
wander 

An unacknowledged outcast from his 
castle, 

Even to the humble cottage I was born in. 
Osw. No, Ellen, no— it is not thus they 
part, 

Whose hearts and souls, disasters borne in 
common 

Have knit together, close as summer sap- 
lings 

Are twined in union by the eddying tem- 
pest.^ 

Spirit of Erick, while thou bear'st his 
shape, 

I'll answer with no ruder conjuration 

Thy impious counsel, other than with these 
words, 

Depart, and tempt me not I 

Eri. ThL'n Fate will have her course. — 
Fall, massive grate, 

Yield them the tempting view of these rich 
treasures. 

But bar them from possession ! {A port- 
cullis falls before the door of the Treas- 
ure-Chamber.) Mortals, hear 1 

No hand may ope that gate, except the 
heii 

Of plunder'd Aglionby, whose mighty 
wealth, 

Ravish'd in evil hour, lies yonder piled ; 

rVnd not his hand prevails without the key 

Of Black Lord Erick. Brief space is given 

To save proud Devorgoil — so wills high 

Heaven. S^TImnder ; he disappears. 

DuR. Gaze not so wildly; you have 

stood the trial 

That his commission bore, and Heaven 
designs, ' 

If I raay spell his will, to rescue Devorgoil 

Even by the Heir of Aglionby— Behold 
him 

In that young forester, unto whose hand 



Those bars shall yield the treasures of his 

house, 
Destined to ransom yours. — Advance, 

young Leonard, 
And prove the adventure. 

Leo. {advances^ and attempts the grate). 
It is fast 
As is the tower, rock-seated. 

Osw. We will fetch other means, and 
prove its strength, 
Nor starve in poverty, with wealth before 
us. 
DuR. Think what the vision spoke ; 
The key — the fated key 

Enter Gu LLC rammer. 

GuL. A key? — I say a quay is what we 

want. 
Thus by the learn'd orthographized— 

Q) "j a, y. 
The lake is overflow'd ! — a quay, a boat. 
Oars, punt, or sculler, is all one to me I — 
We shall be drown'd, good people ! I ! 

Enter Katleen and Blackthorn. 

Kat. Deliver us I 

Haste, save yourselves — the lake is rising 

fast. 
Bla. 'T has risen my bow's height in 

the last five minutes, 
And still is swelling strangely. 

GuL. {who has stood astonished ztpoit 

seeing them) — 
We shall be drown'd witliout your kind 

assistance. 
Sweet Master Owlspiegle, your dragonfly — 
Your straw, your bean-stalk, gentle 

Cockle'moy I 
Lf.o. [looking fro7n the shot-hole). 
'Tis true, by all that's fearful. The proud 

lake 
Peers, like ambitious tyrant, o'er his 

bounds, 
And soon will whelm the castle — even the 

drawbridge 
Is under water now. 
Kat. Let us escape ! Why stand you 

gazing there? 
DuR. Upon the opening of that fatal 

grate 
Depends the fearful spell that now entraps 

us. 
The key of Black Lord Erick — ere we 

find it. 
The castle will be whelm'd beneath the 

waves. 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



561 



And we shall perish in it ! 

Kat. {giving the key). Here, prove 
this ; 
A chance most strange and fearful gave it 
me. 

[Oswald puts it into the lock, 
and attempts to turn it — a loud 
clap of thunder. 
Flo. The lake still rises faster. — Leo- 
nard, Leonard, 
Canst thou not save us ! 

[Leonard tries the lock — it opens 
■with a violent noise, and the 
Portciillis rises. A loud strain 
of wild music. — There may be a 
Chortis here. 
[Oswald eftters the apartmejit, and 
brings out a scroll. 
Leo. The lake is ebbing with as won- 
drous haste 
As late it rose — the drawbridge is left dry ! 

Osw. This may explain the cause — • 
(Gullcrammer offers to take it.) But 

soft you, sir, 
We'll not disturb your learning for the 

matter ; 
Yet, since you've borne a part in this 

strange drama. 
You shall not go unguerdon'd. Wise or 

learn'd. 
Modest or gentle. Heaven alone can make 

til 66; 

Being so much otherwise ; but from this 

abundance 
Thou shalt have that shall gild thine 

ignorance, 



Exalt thy base descent, make thy pre- 
sumption 
Seem modest confidence, and find thee 

hundreds 
Ready to swear that same fool's cap of 

thine 
I5 reverend as a mitre. 

GuL. Thanks, mighty baron, now no 
more a bare one ! 
I will be quaint with him, for all his 
quips. \^Aside, 

Osw. Nor shall kind Katleen lack 
Her portion in our happiness. 

Kat. Thanks, my good lord, but Kat- 
leen's fate is fix'd — 
I There is a certain valiant forester, 
Too much afear'd of ghosts to sleep 
anights 
I In his lone cottage, without one to guard 
I him. — 

: Leo. If I forget my comrade's faithful 
I friendship, 

May I be lost to fortune, hope, and love ! 
DuR. Peace, all ! and hear the blessing 
which this scroll 
Speaks unto faith, and constancy, and 
virtue : — 

" No more this castle's troubled guest, 
i Dark Erick's spirit hath found rest. 

I The storms of angry Fate are past, 

For Constancy defies their blast. 
Of Devorgoil the daughter free 
Shall wed the heir of Aglionby ; 
Nor ever more dishonor soil 
The rescued house of Devorgoil I " 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



A TRAGEDY. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 
This attempt at dramatic cc-nposition was executed nearly thirty years since, when the mag- 
Kifiri.;!;t works of Goethe and Schiller were for the first time made known to the British public, 
and isceived, as many now alive must remember, with universal enthusiasm. What we admire 
W2 usually attempt to imitate ; and the autlior, not trusting to his own efforts, borrowed the 
siibst.iiice of the story and a part of the diction fi-om a dramatic romance called " Der Heilige 
Vehmd " (the Secret Tribunal), which filis the sixth volume of the " Sa.2:en der Vorzeit " (Tales 
of Antiquity), by Beit Weber. The drama m.ust be termed rather a rifacimento of the original 
than a translation, since the whole is compressed, and the incidents and dialogue occasionally 
much varied. The imitator is ignorant of the real name of his ingenious contemporary, and has 
been mformed that of Beit Weber is fictitious.* 



' Creorg" Wachter, who published various works under the pseudonym of Veit WebeTi 
born in 1763, and died in 1837. — ■^<^» 



562 



SCOTT'S FOE 7YCAL WORKS. 



The late Mr. John Kemble atone time had some desire to bring out the play at Drury-Lane, 
then adorned by himself and his matchless sister, who were to have supported the characters of 
the unhappy son and mother ; but great objections appeared to this proposal. There wab dan- 
ger that the mainspring of the story, — the bmding engagements formed by members of the secret 
tribunal, — might not be sufficiently felt by an English audience, to whom the nature of that 
sbngularly mysterious institution was unknown from early association. There was also, accord« 
ing to Mr. Kemble's experienced opinion, too much blood, too much of the dire catastrophe of 
Tom Thumb, when all die on the stage. It was, besides, esteemed perilous to place the fifth act 
and the'parade and show of the secret conclave at the mercy of underlings and scene-shifters 
who, by a ridiculous motion, gesture, or accent, night turn what should" be grave into farce. 

The author, or rather the translator, willingly acquiesced in this reasoning, and never after- 
wards made any attempt to gain the honor of the'buskin. The German taste also, caricatured by 
a number of imitators, who, incapable of copying the sublimity of the great masters of the 
school, supplied its place by extravagance and bombast, fell into disrepute, and received a coup 
de ^race from the joint efforts of the late lamented Mr. Canning and Mr. Frere. The effect of 
their singularly happy piece of ridicule called " The Rovers," a mock play which appeared m 
the Anti-Jacobin, was, that the German school, with its beauties and its defects, passed com- 
pletely out of fashion, and the following scenes were consigned to neglect and oI)SCurity. Very 
lately, however, the writer chanced to look them over with feelings very different from those of 
the adventurous period of his literary life during which they had been written, and yet with such 
as perhaps a reformed libertine might regard the illegitimate production of an early amour. 
There is something to be ashamed of, certainly ; but, after all, paternal vanity whispers that 
the child has a resemblance to the father. 

Tothis It need only be added, that there are in existence so many manuscript copies of the 
following play, that if it should not find its way to the public sooner, it is certain to do so when the 
author can no more have any opportunity of correcting the press, and consequently a^ greater 
disadvantage than at present. Being of too small a size or consequence for a separate publica- 
tion, the piece is sent as a contribution to the Keepsake, where the demerits may be hidden 
amid the beauties of more valuable articles. 
Abbotsford, \st April, 1829. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiB. 



RuDiGER, Baron of Aspen, an old German warrior. 

George of Aspen, ) ,, j d -r- 

Henry ok Aspen, } ^"'''^^ Rudiger. 

RoDERic, Count of Mahingen, chief of a deparimejit of the Invisible Tribunal, an 

her edit a ry ene my of the fa m ily of A spen . 
Wji.LiAM, Baron of IVolfsteiii, ally of Count Roderic. 
Bertram OF Ebersdorf, brother to tJie former husband of the Baroness of Aspen, 

disguised as a Mifistrel. 
Dtike of Bavaria. 

Reynold' f -^'='^^^^^^•5' oj the House of A spen. 
Conrad, Page of Honor to Henry of Aspen. 
Martin, Squire to George of Aspen. 
H uc;o, Squire to Coufit Roderic. 
Peter, an ancient domestic of Rudiger. 
Father Ludovic, Chaplain to Rudiger. 

WOMEN. 

\^\'Rii\.\.K, formerly married to A rnolf of Ebersdorf now wife of Rudiger. 
Gertrude, Isabella's niece, betrothed to Henry. 
Srldiei s. Judges of the Invisible Tribunal, &*c., 6^0. 

Scene.— r//? Castle of Ebersdorf in Bavaria, the ruins of Grief enhaus, and the adjatHU 
'•oiintrv. 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



563 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



ACT I.-SCENE I. 

An ancient Gothic chamber in the castle of 
Ebersdorf. Spears^ crossbows^ ajid arjus, 
ivith the horns of buffaloes and of deer, 
are Jning round the wall. An antique 
buffet with beakers afid stone bottles. 

Rudiger, Barofi of Aspen, and his lady, 
Isabella, are discovered sitting at a large 
oaken table. 

Rud. A plague upon that roan horse ! 
Had he not stumbled with me at the ford 
after our last skirmish, I had been now with 
my sons. And yonder the boys are, hardly 
three miles off, battling with Count Roderic, 
and their father must lie here like a worm- 
eaten manuscript in a convent library ! Out 
upon it ! Out upon it ! Is it not hard that 
a warrior, who has travelled so many leagues 
to display the cross on the walls of Zion, 
should be now unable to lift a spear before 
his own castle gate ? 

Isa. Dear husband, your anxiety retards 
your recovery. 

Rud. May be so ; but not less than your 
silence and melancholy ! Here have I sat 
this month, and more, since that cursed fall ! 
Neither hunting nor feasting, nor lance- 
breaking for me! And my sons — George 
enters cold and reserved, as if he had the 
weight of the empire on his shoulders, utters 
by syllables a cold " Kow is it with you.?" 
and shuts himself up for days in his solitary 
chamber — Henry, my cheerful Henry — 

Isa. Surely, he at least — 

Rud. Even he forsakes me, and skips up 
the tower staircase like lightning to join your 
fair ward, Gertrude, on the battlements. I 
cannot blame him : for, by my knightly faith, 
were I in his place, I think even these bruised 
bones would hardly keep me from her side. 
Stiir, however, here I must sit alone 

Isa. Not alone, dear husband. Heaven 
knows what I would do to soften your con- 
finement. 

Rud. Tell me not of that, lady. When I 
first knew thee, Isabella, the fair maid of 
Arnheim was the joy of her companions, 
and breattied life wherever she came. Thy 
father married thee to Arnolf of Ebersdorf 
— not much with thy will, 'tis true — {she 
hides her,face.) Nay — forgive me, Isabella 
— but that is over — he died, and the ties be- 
tween us, which thy marriage had broken, 



were renewed— but the sunshine of my 
Isabella's light heart returnv.d no iv.ore. 

Isa. (weeping.) Beloved Rud.g:r, you 
search my very soul I Why will yo J r:.call 
past times— days of spring that c:.n never 
return.? Do I not iove thee mere than ever 
wife loved husband ? 

Ricd. [stretches out his arms she em- 
braces him.) And therefore art t!iou ever 
my beloved Isabella But still, is it not 
true ? Has not thy cheerfulness vanished 
since thou hast become Lady of Aspen? 
Dost thou repent of thy love to Rudiger ? 

Isa. Alas I no I never ' never ■ 

Rud. Then why dost thou nerd with 
monks and priests, and leave thy old knight 
alone, when, for the first time m hi'j stormy 
life, he has rested for weeks within the walls 
of his castle ? Hast thou committed a crime , 
from which Rudiger's love cannot absolve 
thee ? 

Isa. O many ! many ! 

Rud. Then be this kiss thy penance. 
And tell me, Isabella, hast thou not founded 
a convent, and endowed it with th2 beet of 
thy late husband's lands ? Ay, and with a 
vineyard which I could have prized as well 
as the sleek monks. Dost thcu not daily 
distribute alms to twenty pilgrims ? Dost 
thou not cause ten masses to be sung each 
night for the repose of thy late husband's 
soul? 

Isa, It will not know repose. 

Rud. Well, well — God's peace be with 
Arnolf of Ebersdorf ; the mention of him 
makes thee ever sad, though so many years 
have passed since his death, 

Isa. But at present, dear husband, have 
I not the most just cause for anxiety.? 
Are not Henry and George, our beloved 
sons, at this very moment perhaps engaged 
in doubtful contest with our hereditary foe. 
Count Roderic of Maltingen ? 

Rud. Now, there lies the difference; you 
sorrow that they are in danger. I that I 
cannot share it with them — Hark! 1 hear 
horses' feet on the drawbridge. Go to th» 
window, Isabella. 

Isa. {at the window.) It is Wickerd, 
your squire. 

Rud. Then shall we have tidings of 
George and Henry. {Enter Wickerd.) 
How now, Wickerd? Have you come to 
blows yet? 

Wic. Not yet, noble sir. 



564 



SCO TT 'S POE TICAL WORKS. 



Rud. Not yet ? — shame on the boys' dal- 
[yirg — what wait they for ? 

V/iC. The foe is strongly posted, sir 
knight, upon the Wolfshill, near the rums of 
Gnefenhaus : therefore your noble son, 
George of Aspen, greets you well, and re- 
quests twenty more men-at-arms, and, after 
they' have jomed him, he hopes, with the aid 
of St. Theodore, to send you news of vic- 
tory. 

Rud, {attempts to rise hastily.) Saddle 
my black barb ; I will head them myself. 
[Sits dozvn. ) A murrain on that stumbling 
roan ! I had forgot my dislocated bones. 
Call Reymud, Wickerd, and bid him take all 
whom he can spare from defence of the 

castle - ( Wickeyd is goitig) and ho ! 

'Wickerd, carry with you my black barb, and 
bid George charge upon him. {Exit Wick- 
erd ) Now see, Isabella, if I disregard the 
boy's safety ; i ser.d him the best horse ever 
knight bestrode. When we lay before As- 
calon, indeed, A had a bright bay Persian — 
Thou dost not heed me. 

Isa. Forgive me, dear husband : are not 
our sons in danger ? Will not our sins be 
visited upon them ? Is not their present 
situation 

Rud Situation ? I know it well : as fair 
a field for cpen fight as I ever buried over : 
see );\erQ~{makes lines en the table)— \itxt 
is the ancient castle cf Griefenhaus in ruins, 
here the Wolfshill ; and here the marsh on 
the right. 

Isa. The marsh of Griefenhaus ! 

Rud. Yes ; by that the boys must pass. 

Isa Pass there! {Apart.) Avenging 
Heaven ! thy hand is upon r.s ! S^Exit hastily. 

Rud. Whither now? Whither now.? She 
is gone. Thus it goes. Peter ! Peter ! (£'«/'cr 
Peter.) Help me to the gallery, that I may 
see them on horseback. 

[Exit, leaning on Peter, 



Scene H. 

The infter court of the castle of Ehersdorf; 
a quadrangle.^ surrotDided zvifh Gothic 
buildings ; troopers, followers of Rudi- 
ger, pass and re-pass in haste, as if pre- 
paring for att excursion. 

Wickerd conzes forward. 
Wic. What, ho! Reynold I Reynold! 
By our Lady, the spirit of the ^even 

Sleepers is upon him — So ho I not mounted 

yet ? Reynold ! 



Enter Reynold 

Rcy, Here! here! A devil choke thy 
bawling I thinkst thou old Reynold is not 
as ready for a skirmish as thou .? 

Wic. Nay, nay : I did but jest ; but, by 
my sooth, it v;ere a shame s'.iould our 
youngsters have yoked with Count Koderic 
before we gtaybeaids come. 

Rey. Heaven f:rier.d . Our troopers are 
but saddling their t.orses , five minutes 
more, and we are m cur stirrups, and then 
let Count Rodenc sit fast 

Wic. A plagua en him \ he has ever 
lain hard on the sKirts of our noble master. 

Rey. Especially since he was refused the 
hand of our Lady's niece, the pretty Lady 
Gertrude. 

Wic. Ay, marry ! wcu'.d nothing less 
serve the fox of Maltingen than th? lovely 
lamb of our young Baron Henry : By my 
sooth, Reynold, when I loc« open these 
two lovers, they make me full cwetuy years 
younger ; and when I meet the man that 
would divide them — I say nothing— but '.e: 
him look to it. 

Rey. And how fare our young lords ? 

Wic. Each well in his humor — Baron 
George stern and cold, according to his 
wont, and his brother as cheerful ?.s ever. 

Rey. Well I — Baron Henry for me. 

Wtc. Yet George saved thyUfe 

Rey. True — w;th as much -nd.ffbrence as 
if he had been snatching a chestnut out of 
the fire. N<,w Baron Henry wept for my 
danger and my wounds. .Therefore George 
shall ever command my life, but Henry my 
love. 

Wic. Nay, Baron George shows his 
! gloomy spirit even by the choice of a favor- 
' ite. 

Rey. Ay — Martin, formerly the squire of 
Arnolf of Ebersdorf, his mother's first hus- 
band. — I marvel he could not have fitted 
himself with an attendant from among the 
faithful followers of his worthy fat1>er, 
whom Arnolf and his adherents used to liate 
as the Devil hares holy water. But Mar- 
tin is a good soldier, and has stood toughly 
by George in many a hard brunt. 

Wic. The knave is sturdy enough, but so 
sulky withal. — I have seen, brother Rey- 
nold, that when Martin showed his moody 
visage at the banquet, our noble mistress 
has dropped the v/ine she was raising to her 
lips, and exchanged her smiles for^ ghastly 
frown, as if sorrovv went by sympathy, a» 
kissing goes by favor. 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEK 



56s 



Rey. His appearance reminds her of her 
first husband, and thou hast well seen that 
makes her ever sad. 

Wlc. Dost thou marvel at tliat ? She 
was married to Arnolf by a species of force, 
and they say that before his- death he cum- 
pelled her to swear never to espouse Ru- 
dsgar. The priests will not absolve lier for 
the Isreach of that vow, and therefore she is 
troubled in mind. For, d'ye mark me. Rey- 

bold \_Bitgle so2inds. 

. Rey. A truce to your preaching ! To 
berse ! and a blessing on our arms ! 

Wic. St. George grant it ! \^Exeiint. 



Scene III. 

The gallery of the castle^ terminating in a 
large balcony commanding a distant 
prospect. — Voices^ btigle-Jiorns, kettle- 
drums, trampling of horses^ ^^c, ere 
heard without, 

Rudiger, leaning on Peter, looks from the 
balcony. Gertrude and Isabella are near 
him. 

Rud. There they go at length — look, Isa- 
bella 1 look, my pretty Gertrude — these are 
the iron-handed warriors who shall tell 
Roderic what it will cost him to force thee 
from my protection — {Flourish without. 
Rudiger stretches his arms from the bal- 
cony). Go, my children, and God's bless- 
ing v/ith you. Look at my black barb, Ger- 
trude. That h>rse shall let daylight in 
through a phalanx, were it twenty pikes 
deep, -^hame on it that I cannot mount 
him ! Seest thou how fierce old Reynold 
looks ? 

Ger. I can hardly know my friends in 
their armor. 

\_TJt.c bugles and kettle-drums are 
heard as at a greater distance. 

Rud. Now I could tell every one of their 
names, even at this distance ; ay, and were 
they covered, as I have seen them, with 
dust and 'olood. He en the dapple gray is 
Wickerd — a hardy fellow, but somewhat 
given to prating. That is young Conrad 
who gallops so fast, page to thy Henry, my 
girl. 

\_Bugles, &^c., at a g^'eater distance 
still. 

Ger. Heaven guard them. Alas ! the 
roice of war that calls the blood into your 
clieeks, chills and freezes mine. 



Rud. Say not so. It is glorious, my girl, 
glorious ! See how their armor glistens as 
they wind round yon hill ! how their spears 
glimmer amid the long train of dust. Hark! 
you can still hear the famt notes of their 
\.\-m\\^Q.i%— {Bugles very faint.) — And Ru- 
diger, old Rudiger with the iron arm, as the 
crusaders used to call me, must remain be- 
hind witli the priests and the women. Welli 
well ! — (Sings.) 

"It was a knight to battle rode, 
And as his war-horse he bestrode.'' 

Fill me a bowl of wine, Gertrude ; and do 
thou, Peter, call the minstrel who came 
hither last night.— (Sings.) 

" Off rode the horseman, dash, sa, sa ! 
And stroked his whiskers, tra, la la.'' — 

(Peter goes oid. — Rudiger sits down, and 
Gertrude hel/>s him with wine.) Thanks, 
my love. It tastes ever best from thy liand. 
Isabella, here is glory and victory to our 
boys — {Drinks.) — Wilt thou not pledge 
me .'' 

/sa. To their safety, and God grant it 5— 
(Drinks.) 

Enter Bertram as a minstrel, with a boy 
bearing his harp. —Also Fete>- 

Rud. Thy name, minstrel 1 

Ber. Mmhold, so please you. 

Rud. Art thou a German ! 

Bcr. Yes, noble sir ; and of this prov* 
ince. 

Rud. Sing me a song of battle. 

[Bertram si\gs io the harp. 

Rud. Thanks, minstrel ; well sung, and 
lustily. What sayst thou, Isabella? 

Isa. I marked him not. 

Rud. Nay, in sooth you are tco anxious. 
Cheer up. And thou, too, my lovely Ger- 
trude : in a few hours thy Henry shall re- 
turn, and twine his laurels into a garland 
fcr thy hair. He fights for thee, and he 
must conquer. 

Ger. Alas! must blood be spilled for a 
silly maiden ? 

Rud. Surely : for what should knichts 
break lances but for honor and ladies' love 
— ha, minstrel ? 

Bcr. So please you — also to punish 
crimes. 

Rud. Out upon it I wouldst have us ex- 
ecutioners, minstrel ? Such work would 



566 



SCO rrs poe tic a l works. 



disgrace our blades. We leave malefactors 
to tlie Secret Tribunal. 

ha. Merciful God 1 Thou hast spoken 
a word, Rudiger, of dreadful import. 

Ger. They say tliat, unknown and invisi- 
ble themselves, these awful judges are ever 
present with the guilty ; that the past and 
the present misdeeds, the secrets of the 
confessional, nay, the very thouglits of the 
heart, are before them ; that their doom is 
as sure as that of fate, the means and exe- 
cutioners unknown. 

Riid. They say true — the secrets of that 
association, and the names of those who 
compose it, are as inscrutable as the grave : 
we only know that it has taken deep root, and 
spread its oranches wide. I sit down each 
day in my hall, nor know how many of these 
secret judges may surround me, all bound 
by the most solemn vow to avenge guilt. 
Once, and but once, a knight, at the earnest 
request and inquiries of the em.peror, hinted 
that he belonged to the society : the next 
morning he was lound slain in a forest : the 
poniard was left in the wound, and bore 
this label — " Thus do the invisible judges 
punish treachery." 

Ger. Gracious ! aunt, you grow pale. 

Isa. A slight indisposition only. 

End. And what of it all ? We know 
our hearts are open to our Creator : shall 
we fear any earthly inspection? Come to 
the battlements ; there we shall soonest de- 
scry the return of our warriors. 

\Exit Rudiger, xvith Gertrude and Peter. 

Isa. Minstrel, send the chaplain hither. 
{^Exit Bertram.) Gracious Heaven! the 
guileless innocence of my niece, the manly 
honesty of my upright-hearted Rudiger, be- 
come daily tortures to me. While he was 
engaged in active and stormy exploits, fear 
for his safety, joy when he returned to his 
castle, enabled me to disguise my inward 
anguish from others. But from myself — 
Judges of blood, that lie concealed in noon- 
tide as in midnight, who boast to avenge 
the hidden guilt, and to penetrate the re- 
cesses of the human breast, how blind is 
your penetration, how vain your dagger, and 
your cord, compared to the conscience of 
the sinner 1 

Enter Father Ludovic. 

Lud, Peace be with you, lady ! 
Isa. It is not with me : it is thy office to 
bring it. 



Lud. And the cause is the absence of the 
young kniglits ? 

Isa. Their absence and their danger. 

Lud. Daughter, thy hand has been 
stretched out in bounty to the sick and to 
the needy. Thou hast not denied a shelter 
to the weary, nor a tear to the afflicted. 
Trust in tlieir prayers, and in. those of t'le 
holy convent thou hast founded : peradven- 
ture they will bring back thy cliildren to thy 
bosom. 

Isa. Thy brethren cannot pray for me or 
mine. Their vow binds them to pray 
night and day for ant)ther — to supplicate, 
without ceasing, the Eternal Mercy for the 
soul of one who — Oh, only Heaven knows 
how much he needs their prayer ! 

Lzid. Unbounded is the mercy of 
Heaven. The soul of thy former hus-^ 
band 

Isa. I charge thee, priest, mention not 
the word. (Apart.) Wretch that I am, 
the meanest menial in my train has power 
to goad me to madness ! 

Lud. Hearken to me, daughter; thy 
crime against Arnolf of Ebersdorf cannot 
bear in the eye of Heaven so deep a dye of 
guilt. 

ha. Repeat that once more; say once 
again that it cannot — cannot bear so deep a 
dye. Prove to me that ages of the bitterest 
penance, that tears of the dearest blood, can 
erase such guilt. Prove but that to me, and 
I will build thee an abbey which shall put 
to shame the fairest fane in Christendom. 

Ltid. Nay, nay, daughter, your conscience 
is over tender. Supposing that, under 
dread of the stern Arnolf, you swore never 
to marry your present husband, still the ex- 
acting such an oath w^s unlawful, and the 
breach of it venial, 

Isa. {resuming her composure.) Be it so, 
good father : I yield to t!-.y better reasons. 
And now tell me, has thy pious care 
achieved the task I intrusted to thee ? 

Lud. Of superintending the erection of 
thy new hospital for pilgrims ? I h?ve, 
noble lady : and last night the minstrel now 
in the castle lodged there. 

Isa. Wherefore came he then to the 
castle ? 

Ltid. Reynold brought the commands of 
the Baron. 

ha. Whence comes he, and what is his 
tale? When he sung before Rudiger, \ 
thought that long before \ had heard su^i 
tones — seen such a face. 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



567 



Lud It is possible you may have seen 
him, lady, for he boasts to have been known 
to Arnolf of Ebersdorf, and to have lived 
formerly in this castle. He inquires much 
after Martin^ Arnolf's squire. 

Isa. Go, Ludovic — go quick, good father, 
seek him out, give him this purse, and bid 
him leave the castle, and speed him on his 
way. 

Lud. May I ask why, noble lady ? 

Isa. Thou art inquisitive, priest : I honor 
the servants of God, but I foster not the 
prying spirit of a monk. Begone ! 

Lud. But the Baron, lady, will expect a 
reason why I dismiss his guest ? 

Isa. True, true {recollecting herself); 
pardon my warmth, good father, I was 
thinking of the cuckoo that grows too big 
for the nest of the sparrow, and strangles 
its foster-mother. Do no such birds roost 
in convent-walls .-' 

Liid. Lady, I understand you not. 

Isa. Well, then, say to the Baron, that I 
have dismissed long ago all the attendants 
of the man of whom ithou hast spoken, and 
that I wish to have none of them beneath 
my roof. 

Ltid. {inqitisitively.) Except Martin? 

Isa. {sharply.) Except Martin! who 
saved the life of my son George 1 Do as I 
command thee. - \^Exit. 

Manet Ludovic. 
Lud. Ever the same — stern and peremp- 
tory to others as rigorous to herself ; haughty 
even to me, to whom, in another mood, she 
has knelt for absolution, and whose knees 
she has bathed in tears. I cannot fathom 
her. The unnatural zeal with which she 
performs her dreadful penances cannot be 
religion, for shrewdly I guess she believes 
not in their blessed efficacy. Well for her 
that she is the foundress of our convent, 
otherwise we might not have erred in de- 
nouncing her as a heretic ! \^Exit. 



ACT II.— SCENE L 

A woodland prospect. — Through a long 
avenue, half grown up by bram'des, are 
discerned in the back-groitnd the ruins 
of the ancie7tt Castle of Griefenhans — 
The distant noise of battle is heard dttr- 
ing this scene. 

Enter George oJ Aspen, armed with a bat- 



tle-axe in his hand, as front horseback. 
He supports Martin, a«^ brings him for- 
ward. 

Geo. Lay thee down here, old friend. 
The enemy's horsemen will hardly take 
their way among these brambles, through 
which I have dragged thee. 

Mar. Oil, do not leave me ! leave me not 
an instant 1 My moments are now but few, 
and I would profit by them. 

Geo. Martin, you forget yourself and me 
— I must back to the field. 

Mar. ( attempts to rise. ) Then drag me 
back thither also ; 1 cannot die "uut in your 
presence — I dare not be alone. Stay, to give 
peace to my parting soul. 

Geo. I am no priest, Martin. {Going. ) 

Mar. ( raising hijuself rvith great pain.) 
Baron George of Aspen, I saved thy life in 
battle : for that good deed, hear me but one 
moment. 

Geo. I hear thee, my poor friend. {Re- 
turning.) 

Mar. But come close — very close. See'st 
thou, sir knight — this wound I bore for thee 
— and this — and this — dost thou not remem- 
ber? 

Geo. I Ao. 

Mar. 1 have served thee since thou wast 
a child ; served thee faithfully — was never 
from thy side. 

Geo. Thou hast. 

Mar. And now I die in thy service. 

Geo. Thou may'st recover. 

Mar. I cannot. By my long service — by 
my scars — by this mortal gash, and by the 
death that I am to die — oh, do not hate me 
for what I am now to unfold ! 

Geo. Be assured I can never hate thee. 

Mar. Ah, thou little knowest. — Swear to 
me thou wilt speak a word of comfort to my 
parting soul. 

Geo. {takes his hand.) I swear T will. 
{Alarm and shouting. ) But be brief — thou 
knowest my haste. 

Mar. Hear me, then. I was the squire, 
the beloved and favorite attendant, of Arnolf 
of Ebersdorf. Arnolf was savage as the 
mountain bear. He loved the Lady Isabel, 
but she requited not his passion. She loved 
thy father ; but her sire, old Arnheim, was 
the friend of Arnolf, and she was forced to 
marry him. By midnight, in the chapel c{ 
Ebersdorf, the ill-omened rites were per* 
formed ; her resistance, her screams were in 
vaiii. These arms detained her at the altat 



568 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



till the nuptial benediction was pronounced. 
Canst thou forgive me ? 

Geo. I do forgive thee. Thy obedience 
to tliy savage master has been obliterated 
by a long train of services to his widow. j 
Ma7'. Services ! ay, bloody services! for 
they commenced — do not quit my hand — j 
they commenced with the murder of my j 
master. (George quits his hand, and stands 
aghast in speechless horror.) Trample on I 
me ! pursue me with your dagger ! I aidtd 
your mother to poison her first husband 1 I 
thank Heaven, it is said. 

Geo. My mother ? Sacred Heaven ! Mar- 
tin, thou ravest — the fever of thy wound has 
distracted thee. 

Mar. No ! I am not mad ! Would to 
God I were ! Try me ! Yonder is the 
Wolfshill — yonder the old castle of Griefen- 
haus — and yonder is the hemlock marsh {in 
a -whisper) where I gathered the deadly 
plant that drugged Arnolf's cup of death. 
(George traverses the stage in the idmost 
agitation, and sometimes stands over Mar- 
tin with his hands clasped together. ) Oh, 
had you seen him when the potion took 
effect! Had you heard his ravings, and 
seen the contortions of his ghastly visage ! — 
He died furious and impenitent, as he lived; 
and went — where 1 am shortly to go. You 
do not speak ? 

Geo. ( with exertion . ) Miserable wretch ! 
how can I ? 

Mar. Can you not forgive me ? 

Geo. May God pardon thee — I cannot ! 

Mar. I saved thy life 

Geo. For that, take my curse! {He 
snatches up his battle-axe, and rushes out 
to the side from which the notse is heard. ) 

Mar. Hear me ! yet more— more horror! 
{Attempts to rise, and falls heavily, A 
loud alarm.) 

Enter Wickerd, hastily. 

Wic. In the name of God, Martin, lend 
me thy brand ! 

Mar. Take it. 

Wic. Where is it ? 

Mar. {looks wildly at him.) In the 
chapel at Ebersdorf, or buried in the hem- 
lock marsh. 

Wic. The old grumbler is crazy with his 
wounds. Martin, if thou hast a spark of 
reason in thee, give me thy sword. The day 
goes sore against us. 

Mar. There it lies. Bury it in the heart 



of thy master George ; thou wilt do him a- 
good office — the office of a faithful servant. 

Enter Conrad. 
Con. Away, Wickerd ! to horse, and pur« 
sue ! Baron George has turned the day ; he 
fights more like a fiend than a man : he has 
unhorsed Roderic, and slain six of his troop- 
ers — they are in headlong flight — the hem- 
lock marsh is red v>'ith their gore ! (Martin 
gives a deep groati, and faints.) Away! 
away ! ( They hurry off, as to i lie fur suit.) 

Enter Roderic of Maltmgen, without his hel- 
met, his arms disordered and broken^ 
holding the truncheon of a spear i-u hii 
hand , with him, Baron Wolfstein. 

Rod. A curse on fortune, and a double 
curse upon George of Aspen I Never, never 
will I forgive him my disgrace — overthrown 
like a rotten trunk before a whirlwind ! 

Wolf. Be comforted. Count Roderic ; it 
is well we have escaped being prisoners. 
See how the troopers of Aspen pour along 
the plain, like the billows of the Rhine I It 
is good we are shrouded by the thicket. 

Rod. Why took he net my life, when he 
robbed me of m.y honor and of my love ? 
I Why did his spear not pierce my heart, when 
j mine shivered on his arms like a frail bul- 
irush? {Tlnows down the broken spear.) 
\ Bear witness, heaven and earth, I outlive 
this disgrace only to avenge! 

Wolf. Be comforted ; the knights of Aspen 
have not gained a bloodless victory. And 
see, there lies one of George's followers — 
{seeing Martin.) 

Rod. His squire Martin ; if he be not 
dead, we will secure hir/i : he is the deposi- 
tory of the secrets of his master. Arouse 
thee, trusty fcllov/er of the house of Aspen ! 

Mar. {rcv.ivi7tg.) Leave me not ! leave 
me not. Baron George 1 my eyes are dark- 
ened with agony ! I have not yet told all. 

Wolf. The old man takes you for his mas- 
ter. 

Rod. What wouldst thou tell ? 

Mar. Oh, I would tell all the temptaliona 
by which I was urged to the murder of Ebers« 
dorf ! 

Rod. Murder ! — this is v/orth marking. 
Proceed. 

Mar. I loved a maiden, daughter of Ar- 
nolf's steward; my master seduced her— 
she bec^^me an outcast, and died in misery 
— I vowed vengeance — and I did avenga 
her. 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



S^>9 



Rod. Hadst thou accomplices? 

Mar. None, but thy mother. 

Rod. The Lady Isabella ! 

Mar. Ay ; slie hated her husband : he 
knew her love to Rudiger, and when slie 
heard that thy father was returned from 
Palestine, her life was endangered by the 
transports of his jealousy — thus prepared 
for evil, the fiend tempted us, and v;e fell. 

Rod. {breaks into a transport.) Fortune! 
thou hast repaid me all ! Love and venge- 
ance are my own I — Wolfstein, recall our 
followers! quick, sound thy bugle— (Wolf- 
stein sounds. ) 

Mar. (^stares wildly rorittd.) That was 
no note of Aspen — Count Roderic of Mal- 
tingen — Heaven ! what have I said I 

Rod. What thou canst not recall. 

Mar. Then is my fate decreed ! 'Tis as 
it should be ! in this very place was the 
poison gather'd — 'tis retribution ! 

Enter three or four soldiers <?/ Roderic. 

Rod. Secure this wounded trooper ; bind 
his wounds and guard him well . carry him 
to the ruins of Grief enhaus, and conceal him 
till the troopers of Aspen have retired from 
the pursuit ; — look to him, as you love your 
lives. 

Mar. {led off by soldiers.) Ministers of 
vengeance I my hour is come ! \Exeunt. 

Rod. Hope, joy, and triumph, once again 
are ye mine ! Welcome to my heart, long- 
absent visitants ! One lucky chance has 
thrown dominion into the scale of the house 
of Maltingen, and Aspen kicks the beam. 

Wolf. I foresee, indeed, dishonor to the 
family of Aspen, should this wounded squire 
make good his tale. 

Rod. And how thinkest thou this disgrace 
will fall on them ? 

Wolf. Surely, by the public punishment 
of Lady Isabella. 

Rod. And is that all .? 

Wolf. What more ? 

Rod. Shortsighted that thou art, is not 
George of Aspen, as well as thou, a member 
of the holy and mvisible cuxle, over which I 
preside. 

Wolf. Speak lower, for God's sake ! these 
are things not to be mentioned before the 
sun. 

Rod. True ; but stands he not bound by 
the most solemn oath religion can devise, to 
discover to the tribunal whatever concealed 
iniquity shall come to his knowledge, be the 
perpetrator whom he may — ay, were that 



perpetrator his own father — or mother; and 
can you doubt that he has heard Martin's 
confession .? 

Wolf. True: but, blessed Virgin ! do you 
think he will accuse his own mother before 
the invisible judges .? 

Rod. If not, lie becomes forsworn, and, by 
our law, must die. Either way my venge- 
ance is complete — perjured or parricide, I 
care not ; but, as the one or the otlier shall 
I crush the haughty George of Aspen. 
Wolf. Thy vengeance strikes deep. 

Rod. Deep as the wounds I have borne 
from this proud family. Rudiger slev/ my 
father m battle — George has "twice baftled 
and dishonored my arms, and Henry has 
stolen the heart of my beloved : but no 
longer can Gertrude now remain under tlis 
care of the murderous dam of this brood of 
wolves ; far less can she wed tlie smooth- 
cheeked boy, when this scene ^f villany 
shall be disclosed. {Buqle. 

Wolf. Hark! they sound a retreat: let 
us go deeper into the wood. 

Rod. The victors approach ! I shall dash 
their triumph ! — Issue the private suiumcns 
for convoking the members this very even- 
ing ; I will direct the other measures. 

^Wolf What place .? 

Rod. The old chapel in the ruins rf Grief- 
enhaus, as usual. [^Excunt, 



SCENE 11. 

Enter George of Aspen, as from the pursuit, 

Geo. {comes slowly forxvard.) Hov/ many 
wretches have sunk under my arm ihis day, 
to whom life was sweet, though the wretched 
bondsmen of Count Roderic ! And I— I who 
sought death beneath every lifted bittlc-r.xc, 
and offered my breast to every arrcv/ — I am 
cursed with victory and safety. Here 1 \At 

the wretch Martin ! — Martin ! — what, 

ho! Martin! -Mother of God! he is 

gone ! — Should he repeat the dreadful tale 

to any other Martin ! — He answers not. 

Perhaps he has crept into the thicket, and 
died there — were it so, the horrible secret is 
only mine. 

Enter Henry of Aspen, with Wickerd, 
Reynold, and followers. 

Hen. Joy to thee, brother ! though, by St. 
Francis, I would not gain another field at 



57< 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



the price of seeing thee fight with such reck- 
less desperatino. Thy safety is little less 
than miraculous. 

Rey. By'r Lady, when Baron George 
struck, I think he must have forgot tliat his 
foes were God's creatures. Such furious 
doings I never saw, and I have been a 
trooper these forty-two years come St. 
Barnaby 

Geo. Peace ! Saw any of you Martin ? 

VVic. Noble sir, 1 left him here not long 
since. 

Geo. Alive or dead .? 

Wic. Alive, noble sir, but sorely wounded. 
I think he n^ust be prisoner, for he could 
not have budged else from hence. 

Geo. Heedless slave 1 Why didst thou 
leave him .? 

Hen. Dear brother, Wickerd acted for 
the best ; lie came to Qur assistance and the 
aid of his companions. 

Geo. I tell thee, Henry, Martin's safety 
was of more importance than the lives of 
any ten that stand here. 

Wic. {muttermg.) Here's much to do 
about an old crazy trencher-shifter. 

Geo. What mutterest thou ? 

Wic. Only, sir knight, that Martin 
seemed out of his senses when 1 left him, 
and has perhaps wandered into the marsh, 
and perished there. 

Geo. How— out of his senses.* Did he 
speak to thee ? — {apprehensively.} 

Wic. Yes, noble sir. 

Geo. Dear Henry, step for an instant to 
yon tree — thou wilt see from thence if the 
foe rally upon the Wolfshill. (Henry 
retires.) And do you stand back {to the 
soldiers). 

[//(? brings Wickerd yijrteflrr^. 

Geo, {with marked apprehension ) What 
did Martin say to thee, Wickerd .? ---tell me, 
on thy allegiance. 

Wic. Mere ravinps, sir knight— offered 
me his sword to kill you. 

Geo. Said he aught of killing any one 
else ? 

Wic. No ■■ the pain of his wound seemed 
Co have brought on a fever. 

Geo. {clasps his hands together^ I breathe 
again — I spy comfcrt Why could I not see 
as well as this fellow, that the wounded 
wretch may have been distracted .'' Let me 
at least think so till proof shall show the 
truth {aside). Wickerd think not on what 
;i said-^the heat of the battle h?.d chafed my 



blood. Thou hast wished for the Nether 
farm at Ebersdorf — it shall be thine. 
Wic. Thanks, my noble lord. 

Re-enter Henry. 

Hen. No — they do not rally — they iiave 
had enough of it — but Wickerd and Conrad 
shall remain, with twenty troopers and a 
score of crossbowmen, and scour the woods 
towards Griefenhaus, to prevent the fugitives 
from making head. We will, with the rest, 
to Ebersdorf. What say you, brother .'' 

Geo. Well ordered. Wickerd, look thou 
search everywhere for Martin : bring him to 
me dead or alive ; leave not a nook of th.j 
wood unsought. 

Wic. I warrant you, noble sir, I shall find 
him, eould he clew himself up like a dor- 
mouse. 

Hen. I think he must be prisoner. 

Geo. Heaven forfend ! Take a trumpet, 
Eustace {to ajt attendant), ride to the 
castle of Maltingen, and demand a parley. 
If Martin is prisoner, offer any ransom : 
offer ten— twenty — all our prisoners in ex- 
change. 

Ens. It shall be done, sir knight. 

Hen. Ere we go, sound trumpets — strike 
up the song of victory. 



Joy to the victors ! the sons of old .Aspen ! 

Joy to the race of the battle and scar ! 
Glory's proud garland triumphantly grasp- 
ing i 
Generous in peace, and victorious in war. 
Honor acquiring, 
Valor inspiring, 
Bursting resistless, through fcemen they 
go: 

War-axes wielding, 
Broken ranks yielding. 
Till from the battle proud Roderic retir- 
ing, 
Yields in wild rout the fair palm to his foe. 

Joy to each warrior, true follower of Aspen! 
Joy to the heroes that gain'd the bold day! 
Health to our wounded, in agony gaspmg ; 
Peace to our brethren that fell in the fray 1 
Boldly this morning, 
Roderic's power scorning, 
Well for tlieir chieftain their blades did 
they wield : 

Joy blest them dying, 
As Maltingen flying, 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



5^1 



Low laid his banners, our conquest adorn- 
ing, 
Their death-clouded eyeballs descried on the 

field! 
Now to our home, the proud mansion of 
Aspen, 
Bend we, gay victors, triumphant away : 
There each fond damsel, her gallant youth 
clasping, 
Shall wipe from his forehead the stains of 
the fray. 
Listening the pranung 
Of horses advancing ; 
E'en now on the turrets our maidens 
appear ; 

Love our hearts warming, 
Songs the night charming, 
Round goes the grape in the goblet gay 
dancing ; 
Love, wine, and song, our blithe evening 
shall cheer ': 
Hot. Now spread our banners, and to 
Ebersdorf in triumph. We carry relief to 
the anxious, joy to the heart of the aged, 
brother George. {Going off.) 
Geo. Or treble misery and death. 

[Apart^ and following slowly. 
The music sounds^ and the followers of 
Aspen begin to file across the stage. The 
curtain falls. 



ACT III.—SCENE L 

Castle of Ebersdorf . 
Rudigerj Isabella, and Gertrude. 

Rud. I prithee, derr wife, be merry. It 
must be over by this time, and happily, 
otherwise the bad news had reached us. 

Isa. Should we not, then, have heard the 
tidings of the good ? 

Rud. Oh ! these fly slower by half. Be- 
sides, I warrant all of them engaged in the 
pursuit. Oh ! not a page would leave the 
skirts of the fugitives till they were fairly 
beaten into their holds ; but had the boys 
lost the day, the stragglers had made for the 
castle. Go to the window, Gertrude : seest 
thou anything ? 

Ger. I think I see a horseman. 

Isa. A single rider ? then I fear me much. 

Ger. It is only Father Ludovic. 

Rud. A plague on thee ! didst thou take 
A fat friar on a mule for a trooper of the 
house of Aspen ? 

Ger. But yonder is a cloud of dust 



Rud. {eagerly^ Indeed! 

Ger. It is only the wine sledges going to 
my aunt's convent. 

Rud. The devil confound the wine sledges, 
and the mules, and the monks ! Come from 
the window, and torment me no longer, thou 
seer of strange sights. 

Ger. Dear uncle, what can I do to amuse 
you ? Shall I tell you what I dreamed this 
morning .? 

Rud. Nonsense : but say on : anyfliing is 
better ths-n silence. 

Ger. I thought I was in the chapel, and 
they were burying my aunt Isabella alive. 
And who do you think, aunt, were the grave- 
diggers who shovelled in the earth upon 
you I Even Baron George and old Martin. 

Isa. {appears shocked^ Yit2L\-tTi. ! what an 
idea ! 

Ger. Do but think of my terror — and 
Minhold the minstrel played all the while to 
drown your screams. 

Riid. And old Father Ludovic danced a 
saraband, with the steeple of the new con- 
vent upon his thick skull. by way of mitre. 
A truce to this nonsense. Give us a song, 
my love, and leave thy dreams and visions. 

Ger. What shall I sing to you ? 

Rud. Sing to me of war, 

Ger. I cannot sing of battle; but I will 
sing you the Lament of Eleanor of Toro, 
when her lover was slain in the wars. 

Isa. Oh, no laments, Gertrude. 

Rtid. Then sing a song of mirth. 

Isa. Dear husband, is this a time for 
mirth ? 

Rud. Is it neither a time to sing of mirth 
nor of sorrow ? Isabella would rather hear 
Father Ludovic chant the " De profundis." 

Ger. Dear uncle, be not angry. At pres- 
ent, I can only sing the lay of poor Eleanor. 
It comes to my heart at this moment as if 
the sorrowful mourner had been my own 
sister. 

SONG.* 

Sweet shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, 
Weak were the whispers that waved the 

dark wood, 
As a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow, 
. Sig'i'd to the breezes and wept to th» 

flood.— . 
" Saints, from the mansion of bliss lowly 

bending. 

* Compare with "The Maid of Toro," a<»ir, 
p. 376. 



572 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Virgin, that hear'st the poor suppliant's 
cry, 
Grant my petition, in anguish ascending, 
My Frederick restore, or let Eleanor die." 

Distant and faint were the sounds of the 
battle ; 
With the breezes tliey rise, with the 
breezes they fail, 
Till the shout, and the groan, and the con- 
hict's dread rattle, 
And the chase's wild clamor came loading 
the gale. 
Breathless sh^ gazed through the woodland 
so dreary, 
Slowly approaching, a warrior was seen ; 
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so 
weary, 
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his 
mien. 

"Save thee, fair maid, for our armies are 
flying ; 
Save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian io 
low; 
Cold on yon heath thy bold Frederick is 
lying, 
Fast through the woodland approaches 
the foe." 

[The voice of Gertrude sinks by de- 
grees, till she bursts into tears. 

Rud. How now, Gertrude? 

Gfr. Alas ! may not the fate of poor 
Eleanor at this moment be mine ? 

Rud. Never, my girl, never! {Military 
music is heard. ) Hark ! hark ! to the 
sounds that tell thee so. 

[All rise and rzcn to the window. 

Rud. Jey! joy! they come, and come 
victorious. ( The chorns of the war-song is 
heard without.) Welcome! welcome! once 
more have my old eyes seen the banners of 
:he house of Maltingen trampled in the 
dust. — Isabella, broach our oldest casks; 
wine is sweet after war. 

Enter 'Honryy followed by Reynold and 
troopers. 

Rud. Joy to thee, my boy, let me press 
thee to this old heart. 

Isa. Bless thee, my son — {embraces him.) 
Oh, how many hours of bitterness are com- 
pensated by this embrace ! Bless thee, my 
Henry ! where hast thou left thy brother ? 



Hen. Hard at hand : by this he is cross- 
ing the drawbridge. Hast thou no greetings 
for me, Gertrude.? ( Goes to her.) 

Gcr. I joy not in battles. 

End. But she had tears for thy danger. 

Hen. Thanks, my gentle Gertrude. See, 1 
have brought back thy scarf from no inglo- 
rious field. 

Ger. It is bloody! — {shocked.) 

Rud. Dost start at that, my girl ? Wer- 
it his own blood, as it is that of his foes, 
thou shouldst glory in it. — Go, Reynold, 
make good cheer with thy fellows. 

[Exit Reynold and Soldiers. 

Enter George, pensively. 

Geo. {goes straight to Rudiger.) Father, 
thy blessing. 

Rud. Thou hast it, boy. 

Isa. {rushes to embrace him — he avoids 
her.) How.? art thou wounded? 

Geo. No. 

Rud. Thou lookest deadly pale. 

Geo. It is nothing. 

Isa. Heaven's blessing on my gallant 
George. 

Geo. {aside.) Dares she bestow a blessing? 
Oh, Martin's tale was frenzy ! 

Isa. Smile upon us for once, my son ; 
darken not thy brow on this day of gladness 
— few are our moments of joy — should not 
my sons share in them ? 

Geo. {aside.) She has moments of joy — it 
was frenzy then ! 

Isa. 'Gertrude, my love, assist me to dis- 
arm the knight. {She loosens and takes off 
his casque.) 

Ger. There is one, two, three hacks, and 
none has pierced the steel. 

Rud. Let me see. Let me see. A trusty 
casque ! 

Ger. Else hadst thou gone. 

Isa. I will reward the armorer with its 
weight in gold. 

Geo. {aside.) She wz/j/ be innocent. 

Ger. And Henry's shield is hacked too! 
Let me show it to you, uncle. {She carries 
Henry's to Rudiger.) 

Rud. Do, my love; and come hither, 

Henry, thou shalt tell me how the day went. 

[Henry and Gertrude converse apart 

with Rudiger ; George comes for- 

ward: Isabella co77ies to htjn. 

Isa. Surely, George, some evil has be- 
fallen thee. Grave thou art ever, but so 
dreadfully gloomy — 



THE HOUSE OF AS, FEN: 



S7S 



Geo. Evit, iv<iQQ6..~{Aside ) Now for 
the trial. 

Isa. Has j'our loss been great ? 

Geo. No! — Yes! — {Apart.) I cannot do 
it. 

Isa. Perhaps some friend lost? 

Geo. It must be. — Martin is dead. — {He 
regards her rvith apprehension, but steadily, 
as he pronounces these 7vords. ) 

Isa. {starts, then shozvs a ghastly expres- 
uonofjoy.) Dead! 

Geo. {almost overcome by his feelings. ) 
Guilty ! Guilty \— {apart, j 

Isa. {without observing his emotion.) 
Didst thou say dead ? 

Geo. Did I — no — I only said mortally 
wounded. 

Isa. Wounded ? only wounded ? Where 
is he ? Let me fly to him. — {Gomg.) 

Geo. {sternly) Hold, lady! — Speak not 
so loud ! — Thou canst not see him ! — He is 
a prisoner. 

Isa. A prisonei and wounded.? Fly to 
his deliverance !• -Offer weaUh, .ands, castles, 
— all our possessions ior his rr.nsom. Jvever 
shall 1 know peace cu. these walls, or till 
the grave secures him. 

Geo. {apart ) Guilty i Guilty ! 

Enter Peter. 

Pet. Hugo, squire to the Count of IVIaltin- 
gen, has arrived with a message. 

Rud. I will receive him in the hall. 

[^Exit, leaning on Gertrude and Henry 

fsa. Go, George- -see after Martin. 

Geo. {firmly ) No, I have a task to per- 
form ; and though the earth should open and 
devour me ahve— I wii; accomplish it. But 
5rst — but first— Nature, take thy tribute. — 
^He falls en hts mothe-y' s neck, and weeps 
bitterly. ) 

isa. George ! my son ! for Heaven's sake, 
what dreadful frenzy! 

Geo. {walks two turns across the stage 
and composes himself. ) Listen, mother -^I 
knew a knight in Hungary, gallant in battle, 
hospitable and generous in peace. The 
Lmg gave him his friendship, and th; ad- 
ministration of a province, that province 
was infested by thieves and murderers. You 
mark me I — 

Isa. Most heedfuUy. 

Geo. The knight was sworn— bound by an 
oath the most dreadful that can be taken by 
man — to deal among offenders, evenhanded, 
stern and impartial justice. Was it not a 
dreadful vowi* 



Isa. (^ith an affectation of composure,) 
Solemn, doubtless, as the cath of every 

magistrate. 

Geo. And inviolable? 
i Isa. Surely — inviolable. 
I Geo. Well ! it happened, that when he 
I rode out against the banditti, he made a 
I prisoner And who, think you, that prison- 
er was ? 

Isa. I know not {with increasing terror). 
Geo. {irembling, but proceeding rapidly). 
His own twin-brother, who sucked the same 
breasts with him, and lay m the bosom of 
the same mother • nis brother, whom he 
loved as his own soul- what should that 
knight have aone unto his brother ? 

Jsa. {almosy speechlesi). Alas J what did 
he do ? 

Geo. He die' {turning his head from her, 
and with clasped hands) what I can never 
do • — he did his duty. 

Isa. My son! my son! — Mercy! Mercy! 
{Clings to him. ) 

Geo. Is it then true ? 
Isa. What? 

Geo. What Martin said (Isabella hides 
her /ace.) It is true ! 

Isa {looks tip with an air of dignity ) 
Hear Framer of the laws of nature ! the 
mother is judged by the child — ( Turns to- 
wards him.) Yes, it is true — true that, fear- 
i .'l of my own hfe, I secured it by the 
I murder of my tyrant. Mistaken coward ! I 
; little knew on what tenors I ran, to avoid 
I on moment's agony. — Thou hast the secret I 
! Geo. Knowest thou to whom thou hast 
I told it ? 

i Isa. To my son. 
j Geo. No ! No ! To an executioner 1 
i Isa. 3e it so — go, proclaim my crime, and 
! forget nor my punishment. Forget not that 
i the murderess of her husband has dragged 
j out years of hidden remorse, to be brought 
j at last to the scaffold by her own chenshed 
I son — thou art silent. 

Geo. The language of Nature is no more f 
How shall I learn another ? 

Isa. Look upon me, George. Should the 
executioner be abashed before the criminal- 
look upon me, my son. From my soul do 
1 forgive thee. 

Geo, Forgive me what ? 
Isa. What thou dost meditate — be venge- 
ance heavy, but let it be secret — add not 
the death of a father to that of the sinner I 
Oh ! Rudiger ! Rudiger ! innocent cause of 
ali my guilt and all my woe, how wilt tho3 



574 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



tear thy silver locks when thou shalt hear 
her guilt whom thou hast so often clasped 
to thy bosom — hear her infamy proclaimed 
by the son of thy fondest hopes — {weeps). 

Geo. {struggling for breath.) Nature 
will have utterance, mother, dearest mother, 
1 will save you or perish ! {throws himself 
into her arms). Thus fall my vows. 

Isa. Man thyself ! 1 ask not safety from 
thee. Never shall it be said, that Isabella 
of Aspen turned her son from the path of 
duty, though his footsteps must pass over 
her mangled corpse. Man thyself. 

Geo. No! No! The ties of Nature were 
knit by God himself. Cursed be the stoic 
pride that would rend them asunder, and 
call it virtue .' 

Isa. My son ! My son ! How shall I be- 
hold thee hereafter ? 

{Three knocks are heard upon the 
door of the apart me )it.'\ 

Geo. Hark! One— two— three. Roderic, 
thou art speedy ! {Apart.) 

Isa. {opens the door.) A parchment 
stuck to the door with a poniard I ( Opens it. ) 
Heaven and earth ! — a summons from the 
invisible judges ! — {Drops the parchment.) 

Geo. {reads with emotion.) " Isabella of 
Aspen, accused of murder by poison, we 
conjure thee, by the cord and by the steel, to 
appear this night before the avengers of 
blood, who judge in secret and avenge in 
secret, like the Deity. As thou art innocent 
or guilty, so be thy deliverance." — Martin, 
Martin, thoa hast played false ! 

Isa. Alas ! whither shall I fly ? 

Geo. Thou canst not fiy ; instant death 
would follow the attempt ; a hundred thou- 
sand arms would be raised against thy life; 
every morsel thou didst taste, every drop 
which thou didst drink, the very breeze of 
heaven that fanned thee, would come loaded 
with destruction. One chance of safety is 
open, — obey the summons. 

Isa. And perish ? Yet why should I still 
fear death } Be it so. 

Geo. No — 1 have sworn to sa.ve you. 1 
v.'ill not do the work by halves. Does any 
one save Martin know of the dreadful deed ? 

Isa. None. 

Geo. Then go — assert your innocence, and 
leave the rest to me. 

Isa. Wretch that I am ! How can 1 
support the task you would impose? 

Geo. Think on my father. Live for him ; 
he will need all the comfort thou canst be- 
stow. Let the thought that his destruction 



is involved in thine, carry thee through the 
dreadful trial. 

Isa. Be it so. — For Rudiger I have 
lived, for him 1 will continue to bear the 
burden of existence ; bat the instant that my 
guilt comes to his knowledge shall be the 
last of my life. Ere I wou!d bear from him 
one glance of hatred or of scom, this dagger 
should drink my blood. {Puts the poniard 
into her bosom. ) 

Geo. Fear not. He can never know. No 
evidence shall appear against you. 

Isa. How shall I obey the summons, and 
v;here find the terrible judgment seat? 

Geo. Leave that to the judges. Resolve 
but to obey, and a conductor will be found. 
Go to the chapel , there pray for your sins 
and for mine. {He leads her out and re- 
turns.) — Sins, indeed!* I break a dread- 
ful vow, but 1 save the life of a parent , and 
the penar.ce I will do for my perjury shall 
appal even the judges of blood. 
Enter Reynold. 

Rey. Sir knight, the messenger of Count 
Roderick desires to speak with you. 

Geo. Admit him. 

Enter Hugo. 

Hug. Count Roderic of Maltingen greets 
you. He says he will this night hear the 
bat flutter and the owlet scream, and he bids 
me ask if thou also wilt listen to the music. 

Geo. I understand him. I will be there. 

Hug. And the count says to you, that he 
will not ransom your wounded squire, though 
you would downweigh his best horse with 
gold. But you may send him a confessor, 
for the count says he will need one. 

Geo. Is he so near death ? 

Hug. Not as it seems to me. He is weak 
through loss of blood ; but since his wound 
was dressed he can both stand and walk. 
Our count has a notable balsam, which has 
recruited him much. 

Geo. Enough — I will send a priest. — 
{Exit Hugo.) 1 fathom his plot. He would 
add another witness to the tale of Martin's 
guilt. But no priest shall approach him. 
Reynold, thinkest thou not we could send 
one of the troopers, disguised as a monk, to 
aid Martin in making his escape ? . 

Rey. Noble sir, the followers of your 
house are so well known to those of Maltin- 
gen, that I fear it is impossible. 

Geo. Knowest thou of no stranger who 
might be employed ? His rewaid shall ex- 
ceed even his hopes. 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



57S 



Key. So p!ease 5"ou — I think the minstrel 
could well execute such a commission : he 
IS shrewd and cunning, and can write and 
read like a pnest. 

Geo Cal! h.m.—^£A;/> Reynold. ) If this 
fails, I mast employ open force Were 
Martin removed, no tongue can assert the 
b.oody U'uth. 

Enter Minstrel. 

Geo Co/re hither, Minhold. Hast thou 
courag- to undertake a dangerous enterprise ? 

Ber. My lif^ sir Knight, has been one 
scene of danger and cf dread. I have for- 
gotten how to fear. 

Geo. Thy speech is above thy seeming. 
Who art thou ? 

Ber. An unfortunate knight, obliged to 
shroud myself under this disguise. 

Geo. What is the cause of thy misfortunes ? 

Ber. 1 slew, at a tournament, a prince, 
and was laid under the ban of the empire. 

Geo. I have interest with the emperor. 
Swear to perform what task 1 shall impose 
on thee, ?.nd i will procure the recall oi the 
ban. 

8:r. I swear. 

Geo. Then take the disguise of a monk, 
and go with the follower of Count Rodenc, 
as if to confess my wounded squire 
Martin. Give him thy dress, and remain 
in prison in his stead. Thy captivity shall 
be sho't, and I pledge my knightly word I 
will labor to execute my promise, when thou 
shalt have leisure to unfold thy history. 

Ber. I will do as you direct. Is the .ife 
of your squire in danger ? 

Geo. It is, unless thou canst accomplish 
his release. 

^cy. I will essay it. \^Exit. 

Geo. Such are the mean expedients to 
which George of Aspen must now resort. 
No longer can I debate with Roderic in the 
field The depraved — the perjured knight 
must contend with him only in the arts of 
dissimulation and treachery. Oh, mother I 
mother ! the most bitter consequence of thy 
crime has been the birth of thy first-born ! 
But I must warn my brother of tlie impend- 
ing storm. Poor Henry, how little can thy 
gay temper anticipate evil ! Wh?.t, ho there ! 
{Enter an .0tendant.) Where is Baron 
Henry ? 

Aft. Noble *r he rode forth, after a 
slight refreshment, to visit the party in the 

G<ie. Saddle my steed ; I will follow him. 



Alt. So please you, your noble father has 
twice demanded your presence at the ban- 
quet. 

Geo. It matters not — say that I have rid- 
den forth to the Wolfshill. Where is thy 
lady? 

Att. In the chapel, sir knight. 

Geo. 'Tis well — saddle my bay-horse — 
{apart) for the last time, \Ex^. 



ACT IV.— SCENE I. 

The wood of Griefen-haiis, with the ruins of 
the Castle. A nearer view of the Castle 
than in Act Second^ but still afi some dis- 
tance. 

Enter Roderic, Wolfstein, attd Soldiers^ as 
from a reconnoitring party. 

Wolf They mean to improve their suc- 
cess, and will push their advantage far. We 
must retreat betimes, Count Roderic. 

Rod. We are safe here for the present. 
They make no immediate motion of ad- 
vance. I fancy neither George nor Henry 
are with their party in the wood. 

Enter Hugo. 

Hug. Noble sir, how shall I tell what haS 

happened ? 

Rod. What.' 

Hug, Martin has escaped. 

Rod. Villain, thy life shall pay it I 
{Strikes at Hugo — is held by VfoMsiem.) 

Wolf Hold, hold, Count Roderic 1 Hugo 
may be blameless. 

Rod. Reckless slave 1 how came he to 
escape i 

Hug, Under the disguise of a monk's 
habit, whom by your orders we brought to 
confess him. 

Rod. Has he been long gone ? 

Hug. An hour and more since he passed 
our sentinels, disguised as the chaplain of 
Aspen ; but he walked so slowly and feebly, 
1 think he cannot yet have reached the posts 
of the enemy. 

Rod. Where is the treacherous priest? 

Hug. He awaits his doom not far from 
hence. [^Exit Hugo. 

Rod. Drag him hither. The miscreant 
that snatched the morsel of vengeance frona 
the lion of Maltingen, shall expire under 
torture. 



576 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ue-eriter Hugo, with Bertram and Attend- 
ants. 

Rod. Villain ! what tempted thee, under 
the garb of a minister of religion, to steal a 
criminal from the hand of justice ! 

Ber. I am no villain, Count Roderic ; 
and I only aided the escape of one wounded 
wretch whom thou didst mean to kill basely. 

Rod. Liar and slave ! thou hast assisted 
a murderer, upon whom justice had sacred 
claims. 

Ber. I warn thee again, Count, that I am 
neither liar nor slave. Shortly I hope to 
tell thee I am once more thy equal. 

Rod. Thou ! Thou ! 

Ber Yes ! the name of Bertram of Ebers- 
dorf was once not unknown to thee. 

Rod. {astonished.) Thou Bertram! the 
brother of Arnolf of Ebersdorf, first husband 
of the Baroness Isabella of Aspen ? 

Ber. The same. 

Rod. Who, in a quarrel at a tournament, 
many years since, slew a blood-relation of 
the emperor, and was laid under the ban ? 

Ber. The same. 

Rod. And who has now, in the disguise 
of a priest, aided the escape of Martin, 
squire to George of Aspen ? 

Ber. The same — the same. 

Rod. Then, by the holy cross of Cologne, 
thou hast set at liberty the murderer of thy 
brother Arnolf ! 

Ber. How ! What I I understand thee 
•4ot! 

Rod. Miserable plotter ! — Martin, by his 
own confession, as Wolfstein heard, avowed 
having aided Isabella :n the murder of her 
husband. I had iaid such a plan of venge- 
ance as should have made all Germany 
shudder. And thou hast counteracted it — 
thou, the brother of the murdered Arnolf ! 

Ber Can this be so, AVolfstein ? 

Wlf.y h??.rd Martin confess the mur- 
der 

Ber. Then am I incfeed unfortunate ! 

Rod What, in the name of evil, brought 
thee here ' 

Ber I am the last of my race. When I 
ivas outlawed, as thou knowest, the lands of 
Ebersdorf, my rightful inheritance, were de- 
clared forfeited, and the Emperor bestowed 
them upon Rudiger when he married Isa- 
bella. I attempted to defend my domain, 
but Rudiger — Hell thank him for it — en- 
forced the ban against me at the head of 
his vassals, and I was constrained to fly. 



Since then I have warred against the Sara- 
cens in Spain and Palestine. 

Rod. But why didst thou return to a land 
where death attends thy being discovered } 

Ber. Impatience urged me to see once 
more the land of my nativity, and the towers 
of Ebersdorf. I came there yesterday, imder 
the name of the minstrel Minhold. 

Rod. And what prevailed on thee to un- 
dertake to deliver Martin t 

Ber. George, though 1 told not my name, 
engaged to procure the recall of the ban ; be- 
sides, he told me Martin's life was in dan- 
ger, and I accounted the old villain to be the 
last remaining follower of our house. But, 
as God shall judge me, the tale of horror 
thou hast mentioned I could not have even 
suspected. Report ran, that my brother 
died of the plague. 

Wolf. Raised for the purpose, doubtless, 
of preventing attendance upon his sick-bed, 
and an inspection of his body. 

Ber. My vengeance shall be dreadful as 
its cause ! The usurpers of my inheritance, 
the robbers of my honor, the murderers of 
my brother, shall be cut off, root and branch ! 

Rod. Thou art, then, welcome here ; espe- 
cially if thou art still a true brother to our 
invisible order. 

Ber. I am. 

Rod. There is a meeting this night on the 
business of thy brother's death. Some are 
now come, I must despatch them in piu*- 
suit of Martin. 

Enter Hugo. 

Hug. The foes advance, sir knight. 

Rod. Back ! back to the ruins ! Come 
with us, Bertram ; on the road thou shalt 
hear the dreadful history. \Exeiint. 

From the opposite side enter George, Henry, 
Wickerd, Conrad, and Soldiers. 

Geo. No news of Martin yet ? 

Wic. None, sir knight. 

Geo. Nor the minstrel .' 

Wic. None. 

Geo. Then he has betrayed me, or is pris 
oner — misery either way. Begone and 
search the wood, Wickerd. 

^Exeunt Wickerd and followers. 

Hen. Still this dreadful gloom on thy 
brow, brother ? 

Geo. Ay! what else ? 

Hen. Once thou thoughtest me worthy of 
thy friendship. 

Geo. Henry, thou art young — 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



577 



Hen. Shall I therefore betray thy confi- 
dence ? 

Geo. No ! but thou art gentle and well- 
natured. Thv mind cannot even support 
the burden which mine must bear, far less 
wilt thou approve the means I shall use to 
throw it off. 

Hen. Try me. 

Geo. I may not. 

Hett. Then thou dost no er love me. 

Geo. I love thee, and because I love thee, 
I will not involve thee in my distress. 

Hen. I will bear it with thee. 

Geo. Shouldst thou share it, it would be 
doubled to me ! 

Hen. Fear not, I will find a remedy. 

Geo. It would cost thee peace of mind, 
here, and hereafter. 

Hen. I take the risk. 

Geo. It may not be, Henry. Thou 
wouldst become tlie confidant of crimes past 
— the accomplice of others to come. 

Hen. Shall I guess ? 

Geo. I charge thee, no ! 

Hen. I must. Thou art one of the se- 
cret judges. 

Geo. Unhappy boy ! what hast thou said ? 

Hen. Is it not so ? 

Geo. Dost thou know what the discovery 
has cost thee ? 

Hen. I care not. 

Geo. He who discovers any part of our 
mystery must himself become one of our 
number. 

Hen. How so ? 

Geo. If he does not consent, his secrecy 
will be speedily ensured by his death. To 
that we are sworn — take thy choice ! 

Hen. Well, are you not banded in secret 
to punish those offenders whom the sword 
of justice cannot reach, or who are shieMed 
from its stroke by the buckler of power ? 

Geo. Such is indeed the p'.:rpose of our 
fraternity ; but the end is pursued through 
paths dark, intricate, and slippery with 
blood. Who is he that shall trrad then; 
with safety? Accursed be the hour in 
which I entered the labyrinth, and doubly 
accursed that, in which thou too must lose 
tlie cheerful sunshine of a soul without a 
mystery ! 

Hen. Yet for thy sake will I be a mem- 
ber. 

Geo. Henry, thou didst rise this morning 
a free man. No one could say to thee, 
" Why dost thou so?" Thou layest thee 
down to-night the veriest slave that evar 



tugged at an oar — the slave of men whose 
actions will appear to thee savage and in- 
comprehensible, and whom thou must aid 
against the world, upon peril of thy throat. 

Hen. Be it so. 1 will share your lot. 

Geo. Alas, Henry ! Heaven forbid ! But 
since thou hast by a hasty word fettered 
thyself, I will avail myself of th/ bondage. 
Mount thy fleetest steed, and hie thee tliis 
very night to the Duke of Bavaria. He is 
chief and paramount of our chapter. Show 
him this signet and this letter ; tell him that 
matters will be this night discussed concern- 
ing the house of Aspen. Bid him speed 
him to the assembly, for he well knows the 
president is our deadly foe. He will admit 
thee a member of our holy body. 

Hen. Who is the foe whom you dread? 

Geo. Young man, the first duty thou must 
learn is implicit and blind obedience. 

Hen. Weil ! 1 shall soon return and see 
thee again. 

Geo. Return, indeed, thou wilt ; but foe 
the rest — well ! that matters not. 

Hen. I go : thou wilt set a watch here ? 

Geo. I will. ( Henry going. ) Return, 
my dear Henry ; let me embrace thee, 
shouldst thou not see me again. 

Hen. Heaven ! what mean you ? 

Geo. Nothing. The life of mortals is pre- 
carious ; and, should we not meet again, 
take my blessing and this embrace— and this 
— {enibr.ices him warmly). And now haste 
to "he duke. {Exit Henry.) Poor youth, 
thou little knowest what thou hast under- 
taken. Bat if Martin has escaped, and if 
the duke arrives, they will not dare to pro- 
ceed without proof. 

Re-enter Wickerd and followers. 
Wic. We have made a follower of Mal- 
tingen prisoner. Baron George, who reports 
that Martin has escaped. 

Geo . Joy ! joy ! such joy ^s I can now 
feel ! Set him free for the good news — and, 
V/ickerd, keep a good watch in this spot all 
night. Send ' ut scouts to find Martin, lest 
he should not be able to reach Ebersdorf. 
Wic. I shall, noble sir. 

[The kettle-drums and trtimfets 
flourish as for setting the watch : 
the scene closes. 



S7S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE II. 

The Chaj)elat Ebersdorf, an ancient Gothic 
building. 

Isabella is discovered rising from before the 
altar, on which burn two tapers. 

Isa. I cannot pray. Terror and guilt 
have stifled devotion. The heart must be at 
ease- the hands must be pure when they 
arc Hfted to Heaven. Midnight is the hour 
of summons : it is now near. How can J 
pray, when I go resolved to deny a crime 
which every drop of my blood could not 
wash away ! And my son ! Oh ! he will 
fall the victim of my crime ! Arnolf I Arnolf ! 
thou art dreadfully avenged ; ( Tap at the 
door.) The foostep of my dreadful guide, 
( Tap again.) My courage is no more, 
{Enter Gertrude by the door.) Gertrude! is 
it only thou ? {embraces her.) 

Ger. Dear aunt, leave this awful place ; it 
chills my very blood. My uncle sent me to 
call you to the hall, 

ha. Who is in the hall ? 

Ger. Only Reynold and the family, with 
whom my uncle is making merry, 

Isa. Sawest thou no strange faces .'' 

Ger. No ; none but friends. 

Isa. Art thou sure of that.? Is George 
there ? 

Ger. No, nor Henry ; both have ridden 
out. I think they might have staid one day 
at least. But come, aunt, 1 hate this place ; 
it reminds me of my dream. See, yonder 
■was the spot where methought they were 
burying you alive, below yon monument 
{J>ointing). 

Isa. {starting). The monument of my 
first husband. Leave me, leave me, Ger- 
trude. I follow in a moment. (Exit Ger- 
trude.) Ay, here he lies ! forgetful alike of 
his crimes and injuries ! Insensible, as if 
this chapel had never rung with my shrieks, 
W the castle resounded to his parting groans ! 
When shall I sleep so soundly. {As she" 
gazes on the momiment^ a figtire vi7tffled 
in black appears from behind it.) Merciful 
God ! is it a vision, such as has haunted my 
couch ? {It approaches : she goes on -vith 
mingled terror and resohdion.) Ghastly 
phantom, art thou the restless spirit of one 
who died in agony, or art thou the mys- 
terious being that must guide me to the 
presence of the avengers of blood ? {Figure 
pends its head and beckons. ) — To-morrow ! 
TcHnorxow I I cannot follow thee now ! 



{Figure shows a dagger from beneath its 
cloak.) Compulsion! I imderstand thee: 
1 will follow. [She follows the figure a little 
way ; he turns and "vraps a black veil 
round her head, and takes her hand: then 
both exeunt behi7id the tnomwient.) 



SCENE III. 

The Wood of Griefenhaus. — A watch fire, 
routid which sit Wickerd, Conrad, and 
others, in their watch-cloaks. 

Wic. The night is bitter cold. 

CoTi. Ay, but thou hast lined thy doublet 
well with old Rhenish. 

Wic. True ; and I'll give you warrant for 
it, (Sings.) 

(rhein-wein lied.) 
What makes the troopers' frozen courage 
muster .-' 
The grapes of juice divine. 
Upon the Rhine, upon the Rhine they clus- 
ter : 
Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! 

Let fringe and furs, and many a rabbit skin, 
sirs. 
Bedeck your Saracen ; 
He'll freeze without what warms our hearts 
within, sirs. 
When the night-frost crusts the fen. 

But on the Rhine, but on the Rhine they 
cluster, 
The grapes of juice divine, 
That make our troopers' frozen courage 
muster : 
Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! 

Con. Well sung, Wickerd; thou wert 
ever a jovial soul. 

Enter a trooper or tivo more. 

Wic. Hast thou made the rounds, Frank ? 

Frank. Yes, up to the hemlock marsh. 
It is a stormy night ; the moon shone on the 
Wolfshill, and on the dead bodies with which 
to-day's work has covered it. We heard the 
spirit of the house of Maltingen wailing 
over the slaughter of its adherents : I durst 
go no farther. 

Wic. Hen-hearted rascal ! The spirit of 
some old raven, who was picking their bones. 

Con. Nay, Wickerd ; the churchmen say 
there are such things. 

Frank. Ay ; and Father Ludovic told us 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



579 



last sermon, how the devil twisted the neck 
of ten farmers at Kletterbach, who refused 
to pay Peter's pence. 

Wic. Yes, some church devil, no doubt. 

Frank. Nay, old Reynold says, that in 
passing, by midnight, near the old chapel at 
our castle, he saw it all lighted up, and heard 
a chorus of voices sing the funeral service. 

Another Soldier. Father Ludovic heard 
the same. 

Wic. Hear me, ye hare-livered boys! 
Can you look death in the face m battle, and 
dread such nursery bugbears ! Old Reynold 
saw his vision in the strength of the grape. 
As for the chaplain, far be it from me to 
name the spirit which visits him ; but 1 
know what I know, when I found him con 
I'essing Bertrand's pretty Agnes in the chest- 
nut grove. 

Con. But, Wickerd, though T have often 
heard of strange tales which 1 could not 
credit, yet there is one in our family so well 
attested, that 1 almost believe it. Shall I 
tell it you ? 

All Soldiers. Do ! do tell it, gentle Conrad. 

Wic. And I will take t'other sup of 
Rhenish to fence against the horrors of the 
tale. 

Con. It is about my own uncle and god- 
father, Albert of Horsheim. 

Wic. I have seen him — he was a gallant 
warrior. 

Con. Well ! He was long absent in the 
Bohemian wars. In an expedition he was 
benighted, and came to a lone house on the 
edge of a forest : he and his followers 
knocked repeatedly for entrance in vain. 
They forced the door, but found no inhabit- 
ants. 

Frank. And they made good their quar- 
ters ? 

. Con. They did: and Albert retired to 
rest in an upper chamber. Opposite to the 
bed on wliich he threw himself was a large 
mirror. At midi..ght he was awaked by 
deep groans ; he cast his eyes upon the 
mirror, and saw 

Frank. Sacred Heaven 1 Heard you 
nothing ? 

Wic. Ay, the wind among the withered 
/eaves. Go on, Conrad. Your uncle was a 
wise man. 

Cent. That's more than gray hairs can 
make other folks. 

Wic. Ha ! stripling, art thou so mala- 

rwt ? Though thou art Lord Henry's page, 
shall teach ihee wlio commands this party. 



All Soldiers. Peace, peace, good Wickerd* 
let Conrad proceed. 

Con, Where was I i* 

Frank. About the mirror. 

Con. True. My uncle beheld in the 
mirror the reflection of a human face, dis- 
torted and covered with blood. A voice 
pronounced articulately, " It is yet time." 
As the words were spoken, my uncle dis- 
cerned in the ghastly visage the features of 
his own father. 

Soldier. Hush I By St. Francis I heard 
a groan. {They start tip all but Wickerd.) 

Wic. The croaking of a frog, who has 
caught cold in this bitter night, and sings 
rather more hoarsely than usual. 

Frank. Wickerd, thou art surely no 
Christian. ( They sit down^ and close round 
ihejire.) 

Con. Well— my uncle called up his attend- 
ants, and they searched every nook of the 
chamber, but found nothing. So they covered 
the mirror with a cloth, and Albert was left 
alone : but hardly had he closed his eyes 
when the same voice proclaimed. " It is 
now too late : " the covering was drawn 
aside, and he saw the figure 

Frank. Merciful Virgin 1 It comes. {Ail 
rise.) 

Wic. Where? what.? 

Co}i. See yon figure coming from the 
thicket ! 

Enter Martin, in the monk's dress, much 

disordered : his face is very pale and his 

steps slow. 

Wic. {levelling his pike.) Man or devil, 
which thou wilt, thou shalt feel cold iron, if 
thou budgest a foot nearer. (Martin stops.) 
Who art thou .? What dost thou seek .? 

Mar. To warm myself at your fire. It is 
deadly cold. 

Wic. See there, ye cravens, your appari- 
tion is a poor benighted monk: sit down, 
father. {They place Martin by the fire.) 
By heaven, itis Martin — our Martin ! Martin, 
how fares it with thee.? We have sought 
thee this whole night. 

Mar. So have many others {vacantly). 

Con. Yes, thy master. 

Mar. Did you see him too ? 

Con. Whom ? Baron George ? 

Mar. No ! my first master, Amolf of 
Ebersdorf. 

Wic. We r.ives. 

Mar. He passed me but now in the wood, 
mounted upon liis old black steed j its noB- 



S8o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



Irils breathed smoke and flame ; neither 
tree nor rock stopped him. He said, "Martin, 
thou wilt return tliis night to my service !" 

Wic, Wrap thy cloak around him, Fran- 
cis : he is distracted with cold and pain. 
Dost thou not recollect me, old friend ? 

Mar. Yes, you are the butler at Ebers- 
dorf : you have the charge of the large 
gilded cup, embossed with the figures of 
the twelve apostles. It was the favorite goblet 
of my old master. 

Con. By our Lady, Martin, thou must be 
distracted indeed, to think our master would 
intrust VVickerd with the care of the cellar. 

Mar. 1 know a face so like the apostate 
Judas on that cup. I have seen the likeness 
when J gazed on a mirror. 

Wic. Try to go to sleep, dear Martin ; it 
will relieve thy brain. i^Footsir.ps are heard 
in the wood.') To' your arms. {They take 
their arms > 

Enter /uj Members r/ t'le Invisible Tri- 
bunal, muffled /.* their cloaks. 

Con. Stand ! Who a^e you ? 

I Mem. Travellers benighted in the wood. 

Wic, A: ye friends to Aspen or Maltin- 
gen' 

I Mem. We enter not into their quarrel : 
we are friends to the right. 

Wic. Then are ye friends to us, and wel- 
come to pass tliie night by our fire. 

1 Mem. Thanks. {They approach the fire, 
and regard Martin very earnestly.') 

Con. Hear ye any news abroad ? 

2 Mem. None ; but that oppression and 
villany are rife and rank as ever. 

Wic. The old complaint. 

I Mem. No ! never did former age equal 
this in wickedness ; and yet, as if the daily 
commission of enormities were not enough 
to blct the sun, every hour discovers crimes 
'^hich have lain concealed for years. 

Con. Pity the Holy Tribunal should 
?■ umber :n its office. 

1 M^m. Young man, it slumbers not. 
When crim'nals are ripe for its vengeance, 
.'t falls like the bolt of Heaven. 

Mar. {attempting to rise.) Let me be 
% ne. 

C. 7. {detaining him.) Whither now, 
ll?xt\:i ? 
".kf.r. To mass, 

I M. n. Even now, we heard a tale of a 
villain, w'lo, U!i2;rateful as tlie frozen adder, 
stung the boscm that had warmed him into 
fe 



Mar. Conrad, bear me off ; 1 would be 

away from these men. 

Con. Be at ease, and strive to sleep. 
Mar. Too well 1 know — I shall never 
sleep again. 

2 Aleni. The wretch of whom we speak 
became, from revenge and lust of ga.n, the 
murderer of the master whose bredd he did 
eat. 

Wic. Out upon the monster ! 
I Mem. Yqx nearly thirty years was 'r,e 
permitted to cumber the ground. Th mis- 
creant thought his crime was concealed , but 
the earth which groaned under his footsteps 
— the winds which passed over h.s unhal- 
lowed head — the stream wh,ch he polluted, 
by his lips — the fire at which he warmed h.s 
blood-stained hands — every elemtiit bore 
witness to his guilt. 

Mar. Conrad, good youth — lead me from 
hence, and I will show thee where, tlnrty 
years since, I deposited a mighty bribe. 

{Rises. 
Con. Be patient, good Martin. 
Wic. And where was the miscreant 
seized? 

{The two Members suddenly lay 
hands on Martin, and draw their 
daggers; the Soldiers spring to 
their arms. 
I Mem. On this very spot. 
Wic. Traitors, unloose your hold ! 
I Mem. In the name of the Invisible 
Judges, I charge ye, impede us not in our 
duty. 

{All sink their weapons, and stand 
motionless. 
Mar. Help ! help ! 
I Mem. Help him with your prayers. 
\He is dragged off, Th; scene 
shuts. 



ACT V.-SCENE I. 

The subterranean c\ap:l of the Castle of 
Grief enhaus It seems deserted, and tn 
decay. There are fouy entrances^ each 
defended by an irovc portal. At each door 
stands a uardcr clothed in blacky and 
masked, armed with a naked sword. 
During the whole scene they remain 
motionless on their posts. In the centre 
of the chapel is the ruinous cltar, half 
stink in the ground, on which he a large 
book, a daQger, and a coil of ropes, be- 
side two lighted tapers. Antique stoat 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN: 



58« 



benches of different heights around the 
chapel. In the back scene is seen a 
dilapidated entrance into the sacristy. 

■which is quite dark. 
Various Monbers of the Invisible Trtbtinal 
enter by the four different doors of the 
chapel. Each whispers something as he 
passes the Warder^ which is answered 
by an i7iclination of the head. The cox- 
Uime of the members is a long black robe, 
capable of muffling the face some wear 
it in this maiDier; others have their faces 
uncovered, utiless on the entrance of a 
stranger ; they place themselves i7i pro- 
found silence upon the stone benches. 

Enter Count Roderic, dressed iit a scarlet 
cloak of the satne form with those of the 
other Members. He takes his place on 
the most elevated bench. 

Rod. Warders, secure the doors ! ( The 
doors are barred with great care.) Herald, 
do thy duty ! 

[^Metnbers all rise — Herald stands 
by the altar. 

Her. Members of the Invisible Tribunal, 
who judge in secret, and avenge in secret, 
like the Deity, are your hearts free from 
malice, and your hands from blood-guilti- 
ness ? 

\All the Members incline their 
heads. 

Rod. God pardon our sins of ignorance, 
and preserve us from those of presumption. 
\Agai7t the Aletnbers solemnly in- 
cline their heads. 

Her To the east, and to the west, and 
to the north, and to the south, I raise my 
voice ; wherever there is treason, wherever 
there is blood-guiltiness, wherever there is 
sacrilege, sorcery, robbery, or perjury, there 
let this curse alight, and pierce the marrow 
and the bone. Raise, then, your voices, and 
say with me, woe ! woe, unto offenders ! 

All. Woe ! woe I [^Members sit down. 

Her. He who knoweth of an unpunished 
crime, let him stand forth as bound by his 
oath when his liand was laid upon the dag- 
ger and upon the cord, and call to the as- 
sembly for vengeance ! 

Mem. {rises, his face covered.) Ven- 
geance I vengeance ! vengeance 1 

Rod. Upon whom dost thou invoke ven- 
geance ? 

Accuser. Upon a brother 'of this order, 
who is forsworn and perjured to its laws. 

Rod Relate his crime. 



Accu. This perjured brother was sworn, 
upon the steel and upon the cord, to de* 
nounce malefactors to the judgment-seat, 
from the four quarters of heaven, though it 
were the spouse of his heart, or the son 
whom he loved as the apple of his eye ; yet 
did he conceal the guilt of one who was 
dear unto him ; he folded up the crime 
from the knowledge of the tribunal ; he re- 
moved the evidence of guilt, and withdrew 
the criminal from justice. What does his 
perjury deserve ? 

liod. Accuser, come before the altar : lay 
thy hand upon the dagger and the cord, and 
swear to the truth of thy accusation. 

Accu. {his hand on the altar.) I swear I 

Rod. Wilt thou take upon thyself the 
penalty of perjury, should it be found false? 

Accu. I will. 

Rod. Brethren, what is your sentence ? 
[ The Members confer a tnoment in 
whispers — a siletice. 

Eldest Mem. Our voice is, that the" per- 
jured brother merits death. 

Rod. Accuser, thou hast heard the voice 
of the assembly ; name the criminal. 

Accu. George, Baron of Aspen. 

\A murmur in the assembly. 

A Mem. {suddenly rising.) I am ready, 
according to our holy laws, to swear, by the 
steel and the cord, that George of Aspen 
merits not this accusation, and that it is a 
foul calumny. 

Accu. Rash man 1 gagest thou an oath 
so lightly ? 

Mem. I gage it not ligh tly. I proffer it 
in the cause of innocence and virtue. 

Accu? What if George of Aspen -should 
not himself deny the charge ? 

Mem. Then would I never trust man 
again. 

Accu. Hear him, then, bear witness 
against himself (throws back his mantle). 

Rod. Baron George of Aspen ? 

Geo. The same — prepared to do penance 
for the crime of which he stands self-ac- 
cused. 

Rod. Still, canst thou disclose the name 
of the criminal whom thou hast rescued 
from justice; on that condition alone, thy 
brethrj^n may spare thy life. 

Geo. Thinkest thou I would betray for 
the safety of my life, a secret I have pre- 
served at the breach of my word? — No! I 
have weighed the value of my obligation — I 
will not discharge it — but most willingly 
will I pay the penalty I 



582 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Rod. Retire, George of Aspen, till the 
assembly pronounce judgment. 

Geo. Welcome be your sentence — I am 
weary of your yoke of iron. A light beams 
on my soul. Woe to those who seek jus- 
tice in the dark haunts of mystery and of 
cruelty ! She dwells in the broad blaze of 
the sun, and Mercy is ever by her side. 
Woe to those who would advance the gen- 
eral weal by trampling upon the social affec- 
tions ! they aspire to be more than men — 
they shall become worse than tigers. I go : 
better for me your altars should be stained 
with my blood, than my soul blackened with 
your crimes. 

\^Exif George, by the ruinous door 
in the back scene, into the sa- 
cristy. 
Rod. Brethren, sworn upon the steel and 
upon the cord, to judge and to avenge in 
secret, without favor and without pity, 
what is your judgment upon George of As- 
pen, self-accused of perjury, and resistance 
to the laws of our fraternity. 

[Lo7tg and earnest murmurs in the 
assembly. 
Rod. Speak your doom 
Eldest Mem. George of Aspen has de- 
clared .himself perjured ; —the penalty of 
perjury is death ! 

Rod. Father of the secret? judges — Eld- 
est among those who avenge in secret — 
take to thee the steel and the cord , — let the 
guilty no longer cumber the land. 

Eldest Mem. I am fourscore and eight 
years old. My eyes are dim, and my hand 
is feeble ; soon shall 1 be called before the 
throne of my Creator; — how shall 1 stand 
there, stained with the blood of such a 
man ? 

Rod. How wilt thou stand before that 
throne, loaded with the guilt of a broken 
oath ? The blood of the criminal be upon 
us and ours ! 

Eldest Mem. So bs it, in the name of 
God! 

\^He taker the dagger from the altar, 
goes slowly tozvards the back scene, \ 
and reluctantly enters the sac- ' 
risty. 
Eldest Judge, {from behind the scfke.) 
Dost thou forgive me ? 

Geo. (behind.) I do ! [He is heard to 
fall heavily. 

[Re-enter the old Judge from the 
sacristy. He lays on the altar the 
bloody dagger. 



Rod. Hast thou done thy duty ? 
Eldest Mem. I have. {He faints.) 
Rod. He swoons. Remove him. 

\He is assisted of the stage. Dtir- 

ing this, four members enter the 

sacristy and bring out a bier 

covered -with a pall, which they 

place .on the stcfs of the altar. A 

deep silence. 

Rod. Judges of evil, dooming in secret, 

and avenging in secret, like the Deity: God 

keep your thoughts from evil, and your 

hands from guilt. 

Ber. I raise my voice in this assembly, 
and cry, vengeance 1 vengeance ! ven- 
geance ! 

Rod. Enough has this night been done — 
{he rises and brings Bertram fcruard.) 
Think what thou doest — George has fallen 
— it were murder to slay both mother and 
son. 

Ber. George of Aspen was thy victim — a 
sacrifice to thy hatred and envy. I claim 
mine, sacred to justice and tc my murdered 
brother. R«sume thy place ! — thou canst 
not stop the rock thou hast pat in motion 

Rod. {resinnes his seat.) Upon whom 
tallest thou for vengeance? 
Ber. Upon Isabella of Aspen. 
Rod. She has been summoned. 
Herald. Isabella of Aspen, accused of 
murder by poison, I charge thee to appear, 
and stand upon thy defence. 

[ Three ktiocks are heard at one of 
the doors — it is opened by the 
warder. 

E}iter Isabella, the veil still wrapped 
around her head, led by her conductor. 
All the members muffle their faces. 

Rod. Uncover her eyes. 

[ The veil is removed. Isabella looks 
wildly round. 

Rod. Knowest thou, lady, where thou 
art? 

Isa. I guess. 

Rod. Say thy guess. 

Isa. Before the Avengers of blood. 

Rod. Knowest thou why thou art called 
to their presence? 

Isa. No. 

Rod. Speak, accuser. 

Ber. I impeach thee, Isabella of Aspen> 
before this awful assembly, of having mur- 
dered, privily and by poison, Arnolf of 
EbersHoi^ thy first husband. 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



5S3 



Rod. Canst thou swear to the accusa- 
tion ? 

Bcr. {his hand 071 the altar.) I lay my 
hand on the steel and the cord, and swear. 

Rod. Isabella of Aspen, thou hast heai-d 
thy accusation. What canst thou answer ? 
Isa. That the oath of an accuser is no 
proof of guilt i 
Rod. Hast thoa irore to say? 
Isa. I have. 
Rod. Speak on 

Isa. Judges invisible tc the sun, and seen 
only by the stars of midnight ! I stand be- 
fore you, accused of an enormous, daring, 
and premeditated crime. I was married to 
Arnolf when I was only eighteen years old 
Arnolf was wary and jealous ; ever suspect- 
ing me without a cause, unless it was be- 
cause he had injured me. How then should 
I plan and perpetrate such a deed ? The 
lamb turns not against the wolf, though a 
prisoner in his den. 

Rod. Have you finished ? 
Isa. A moment. Years after years have 
elapsed without a whisper of this 'foul suspi- 
cion. ^ Arnolf left a brother ! though :om- \ 
mon fame had been silent, natural affection ; 
would liave been heard against rre— why 
spoke he not my accusation.? Or has my 
conduct justified this horrible charge ? Nc ! 
awful judges, I may answer, I have founded 
cloisters, I have endowed hospitals. The 
goods that Heaven bestowed on me I have 
not held back from the needy. I appeal to 
you, judges of evil, can these proofs of inno- 
cence be downweighed by the assertion of 
an unknown and disguised, perchance a 
malignant accuser. 

Ber. No longer will I wear that dis^isc. 
{throws back his mantle. ) Dost thou know 
me now ? 

Isa. Yes; I know thee for a wandering 
mmstrel, relieved by the charity of my hus- 
band. 

Ber. No, traitress ! know me for Bertram 
of Ebersdorf, brother to him thou didst 
murder. Call her accomplice, Martin. Ha ! 
turnest thou pale.? 

Isa. May I have some WTXtxt— {Apart.) 
Sacred Heaven ! his vindictive look is so 



n, [ ^ater is brmtght. 

A Mem. Martin died m the hands of our 
brethren. 

Ro± Dost thou know the accuser, lady ? 

_ Isa. {reassuming fortitude.) Let not the 

sinking of natiu-e under this dreadful trial 

be miputed to the consciousness of guilt. 1 



do know the accuser— know him to be out 
lawed for homicide, and under the ban of 
tlie empire: his testknony cannot be re. 
ceived. 
Eldest J7idge. She says truly. 
Ber. {to Roderic. ) Then I call upon the:, 
and William of Wolfstein to bear witness to 
what you know. 

Rod. Wolfstein is not in the assembly, 
and my place prevents me from being a 
witness. 

Ber. Then I will call another : meanwhile 
let the accused be removed. 

Rod. Retire, lady. [Isabella is led to the 
sacristy. 

Isa. {in going of .) The ground is slip- 

! pery —Heavens ! it is floated with blood ! 

I [^Exit into the sacristy. 

i Rod. (apart to Bertram.) Whom dost 

thou mean to call .? [Bertram whispers. 

Rod. This goes beyond me. {After a 

momenfs thought.) But be it so. Maltin- 

I gen shall behold Aspen humbled in the 

I dust. '^ Aloud.) Brethren, the accuser 

! calls for a witness who remains without : 

j .dm't him 

\_All muffle their faces. 

Enter Rudiger, his eyes bound or coveredy 
leaning upon two members ; they place 
a stool for Jiim, and unbind his eyes. 

Rod. Knowest thou where thou art, and 

before whom ? 

Rnd. I know not, and I care not. Two 
strangers summoned me from my castle to 
assist, they said, at a great act of justice. I 
ascended the litter they brought, and I am 
here. 

Rod. It regards the punishment of per- 
jury and the discovery of murder. Art thou 
willing to assist us ? 

Rud. Most willing, as is my duty. 

Rod. \^'hat if the crime regard thy 
friend? 

Rud. I will hold him no longer so. 

Rod. What if thine own blood? 

Rud. I would let it out with my poniard. 

Rod. Then canst thou not blame us for 
this deed of justice. Remove the pall. 
( The pall is lifted^ beneath which is dis- 
covered the body of George, pale and 
bloody. Rudiger staggers towards it. 

Rud. My George! my George! Not 
slain manly in battle, but murdered by legal 
assassins. Much, much may I moiurn thee, 



5»4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



my beloved boy ; but not now, not now : 
never will I shed a tear for thy death till I 
have cleared thy fame. Hear me, ye mid- 
night murderers, he was innocent {raising 
his voice) — upright as the truth itself. Let 
the man who dares gainsay me lift that 
gage. If the Almighty does not strengthen 
these frail limbs, to make good a father's 
quarrel, I have a son left, who will vindicate 
the honor of Aspen, or lay his bloody body 
beside his brother's. 

Rod. Rash and insensible! Hear first 
the cause. Hear the dishonor of thy house. 

Isa. (from the sacristy. ) Never shall he 
h»ar it till the author is no more ! ( Rudiger 
attempts to rush towards the sacristy, but 
is prevented. Isabella d?«/^rj wounded, and 
throws herself on George's body). 

Isa. Murdered for me — for rne ! my 
dear, dear son ! 

Riid. (still held.) Cowardly villains, let 
me loose! Maltingen, this is thy doing! 
Thy face thou wouldst disguise, thy deeds 
thou canst not ! I defy thee to instant and 
mortal combat ! 

Isa. {looking up., No. noi endanger 
not thy life! Myself! myself! I could 

not bear thou shouldst know Oh ! 

{Dies.) 

Riid. Oh ! let me go — iei me but try to 
stop her blood, and 1 will forgive all. 

Rod. Drag him off and detain him. The 
voice of lamentation must not disturb the 
stern deliberation of justice. 

Ritd. Bloodhound of Maltingen ! Well 
beseems thee thy base revenge ! The marks 
of my son's lance are still on thy craven 
crest ! Vengeance on the band of ye ! 

[Rudiger is dragged off to the sacristy. 

Rod. Brethren, we stand discovered! 
What is to be done to him who shall de- 
'jcry our mystery ' 

Eldest Judge. He n->u«t become a brother 
of our order, or die 

t 



Rod. This man will r.evsr join us! He 
cannot put his hand into ours, which are 
stained witn the b'ocd of his wife and son : 
he must therefore die ! {Murmurs in the 
assembly). Brethren! I wonder not at 
your reluctance; but the man is powerful, 
has friends and allies to buckler his cause. 
It is over with us, and with our order, unless 
the laws are obeyed. {Painter murmurs.) 
Besides, have we not sworn a deadly oath 
to execute these statutes ? {A dead silence). 
Take to thee the stee'. and the cord {to the 
eldest Judge). 



Eldest Judge. He has done no evil — hs 
was the companion of my battle — I will 
not! 

Rod. {to another.) Do thou— and suc- 
ceed to the rank of him who has disobeyed. 
Remember your oath ! {Member takes the 
dagger, and goes irresolutely forward: 
looks into the sacristy, and comes back.) 

Mem. He has fainted— fainted in an- 
guish for his wife and his son : the bloody 
ground is strewn with his white hairs, torn 
by those hands that have fought for Chris- 
tendom. I will not be your butcher. 
( Throzvs down the dagger.) 

Ber. Irresolute and perjured! the robber 
of my inheritance, the author of my exile, 
shall die ! 

Rod. Thanks, Bertram. Execute the 
doom— secure the safety of the holy tribu- 
nal ! 

[Bertram seizes the dagger, and is 
about to rush into the sacristy, ivhen 
three loud knocks are heard at the 
door. 
All. Hold! hold! 

{fThe Duke of Bavaria, attended by 
many members of the Invisible 
Tribunal, enters, dressed in a scar- 
let mantle trimmed with crjnine, 
and wearing a ducal croivn. — 
He carries a rod in his hand. — All 
rise. — A murmur among the mem- 
bers, who whisper to each other, 
" The Duke;' " The Chief' &'c. 
Rod. The Duke of Bavaria ! I am lost. 
Duke, {sees the bodies.) 1 am too late — 
the victims have falien. 

Hen. {who enters with the Duke.) 
Gracious Heaven ! O George! 

Rud. {from the sacristy.) Henry, it is 
thy voice — save me ! 

[Henry rushes iiito the sacristy. 
Duke. Roder;c of Maltingen, descend 
from tlie seat which thou hast dishonored. 
( Roderic leaves his place, -which the Duke 
occupies.) — Thou standest accused of having 
perverted the laws of our order; for that 
being a mortal enemy to the House of 
Aspen, thou hast abused thy sacred author- 
ity to pander to thy private revenge ; and to 
this Woltstein has been witness. 

Rod. Chief among our circles, I have but 
acted according to our laws. 

Duke. Thou hast indeed observed the 
letter of our statutes, and woe am I that 
they do warrant this night's bloody work ! 
1 cannot do unto thee as I would, but what 



THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 



SH 



I can I will. Thou hast not indeed trans- 
gressed our law, but thou hast wrested and 
abused it • kneel down, therefore, and place 
thy hands betwixt mine. (Rodaric kneels 
as di>'e:ied.) I degrade thee from thy 
sacred oi^CQ (spreads his hands , as piisliing 
Roderic/r<?;« lihn). If after two days thou 
darest to pollute Bavarian ground by thy 
footsteps, be it at the peril of the steel and 
tlie cord (Roderic rises). I dissolve this 
meeting {all rise). Judges and condemners 
of others, God teach you knowledge of your- 
selves I {All bejtd their heads — Duke 
breaks his rod, and coynes forward.) 

Rod. Lord Duke, thou hast charged me 
with treachery — thou art my liege lord— but 
who else dares maintain the accusation, lies 
in his throat. 

Hen. {rushing fro7n the sacristy) Vil- 
lain ! I accept thy challenge ! 

Rod. Vain boy ! my lance shall ch„bti3e 
thee in the lists — there lies my gage. 

Duke. Henry, on thy allegiance, toach it 
©ot. ( 2^0 Roderic.) llisti. shalt thou n«"2r 



more enter ; lance shalt thou never more 
wield (draws his sword). With this sword 
wast thou dubbed a knight ; with tliis 
sword I dishonor thee — I thy prince — 
{strikes him slightly zvith the flat of the 
sword) — I take from thee the degree of 
knight, the dignity of chivalry. Thou art 
no longer a free German noble ; thou art 
honorless and rightless ; the funerr.l obse- 
quies shall be performed for thee as for one 
dead to knightly honor and to fair f?.me ; 
thy spurs shall be hacked from thy heels ; 
thy arms baffled and reversed by \m com- 
mon executioner. Go, fraudful and dis- 
honored, hide thy shame in a foreign land! 
[ Roderic shows a dumb expression of 
rage.) Lay hands on Bertram of Ebers- 
dorf : as I live, he shall pay the forfeiture of 
his outlawry. Henry, aid us to remove 
thy father from this charnel-house. Never 
shall he know the dreadful secret. Be it 
mine to soothe the sorrows, and to restwre 
the honor of the House of Aspen. 
{Curium siowly /aiis,) 



APPENDIX. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



Note i. 

f he feast wets over in Branksome tower. — P.8. 

In the reign of James I., Sir William Scott of 
Buccleuch, chief of the clan bearing that name, 
exchanged, with Sir Thomas Inglis of Manor, 
the estate of Murdiestone, in Lanarkshire, for 
one-half of the barony of Branksome, or Brank- 
holm, lying upon the Teviot, about three miles 
above Hawick. He was probably induced to 
this transaction from the vicinity of Branksome 
to the extensive domain which he possessed m 
Ettnck Forest, and in Teviotdale. In the 
former district he held by occupancy the estate 
of Buccleuch, and much of the forest land on 
the river Ettrick. In Teviotdale, he enjoyed 
the barony of Eckford, by a grant from Robert 
II. to his ancestor, Walter Scott of Kirkurd, for 
the apprehending of Gilbert Ridderford, con- 
firmed by Robert III., 3 May, 1434. Tra- 
dition imputes the exchange betwixt Scott and 
Inglis to a conversation, in which the latter — a 
man, it would appear, of a itiild and forbearing 
nature — complained much of the injuries to 
which he was exposed from the English Bor- 
derers, who frequently plundered his lands of 
Branksome. Sir William Scott instantly offered 
him the estate of Murdiestone, in exchange for 
that which was subject to such egregious in- 
convenience. When the bargain was completed, 
he dryly remarked, that the cattle in Cumber- 
land were as good as those of Teviotdale ; and 
proceeded to commence a system of reprisals 
upon the English, which was regularly pursued 
by his successors. In the nextreigii, James II. 
granted to Sir Walter Scott of Branksome, and 
to Sir David, his son, the remaining half of the 
barony of Branksome, to be held in blanche for 
the payment of a red rose. The cause assigned 
for the grant is, their brave and faithful exer- 
tions in favor of the King against the house of 
Douglas, with whom James had been recently 
tugging for the throne of Scotland. Tins charter 
is dated the 2nd February, 1443 ; and, in the 
same month, part ot the barony of Langholm, 
and many lands in Lanarkshire, were conterred 
upon Sir Wi'ter and his son by the same 
monarcb . 



Note 2. 
N ine-and-twenty Kftights o/fante 
H»ng their shields ift Branksome Hall. — P.So 
The ancient barons of Buccleuch, both frono 
feudal splendor and from their frontier situa- 
tion, retained in their household at Branksome, 
a number of gentlemen of their own name, who 
held lands from their chief, for the military 
service of watching and warding his castle. 

Note 3. 

with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow. — P. 8. 

*' Of a truth," says Froissart, " the Scottish 
cannot boast great skill with the bow, but 
rather bear axes, with which, in time of need, 
they give heavy strokes." The Jedwood-axe 
was a sort of partisan, used by horsemen, as 
appears from the arms of Jedburgh, which bear 
a cavalier mounted and armed with this 
weapon. It is also called a Jedwood or Jed- 
dart sta£E. 

Note 4. 

They ivatch, against Southernforce and guile. 

Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy' s powers. 

Threaten Braitksome' s lordly towers, 

FrofH Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry 

Carlisle. -F 8. 

Branksome Castle was continually exposed 
to the attacks of the English, both from its 
situation and the restless military disposition of 
its inhabitants, who were seldom on good terms 
with their neighbors. 

Note 5. 
Ba-ds long shall tell, 
How Lord Walter fell.-'? . 9. 
Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch succeeded to 
his grandfather. Sir David, in 1492. He was a 
brave and pcwerfii) baron, and Warden of the 
West Marches cf Scotland. His death was 
the consequence c£ the feud betwixt the Scotts 
and Kerrs. 

Note 6 

While Ciss/crd owns the ride of Car r, 

Wh'.U EtiT ick beasts the line of Scott. 



£88 



APPENDIX. 



The slaughter' d chiefs, the mortal jar. 

The fiavock of the feudal luar, 
Shall Ttever, never be forgot I — P. 9. 

Among other expedients resorted to for 
stanching the feud betwixt the Scolts and the 
Kerrs, there was a bond executed in 1529, be- 
tween the heads of each clan, binding ihem- 
selves to perform reciprocally the four principal ' 
pilgrimages of Scotland, for the benefit of liie 
rouls of those of the opposite name who had 
ialien \n the quarrel. But either this indenture 
never took effect, cr else the feud was renewed 
L^hortly afterwards. 

NOTS 7. 

With Carr tv ami!, tad iiocd. — P. q. 

The family of Ker, Kerr, 01 Carr," was very 
powerful on the Border The.r nfluence ex- 
tended from the village of Preston-Grange, ,ri 
Lothian, to the limits of England L'essford 
Cast.e, now in ruins, the ancient baronial resi j 
dence of the family, is situated near the village : 
of Morebattle, within two or three miles of the I 
Cheviot Hills. Tradition affirms that it was 
founded by Halbeit, or Habby Kerr, a gigantic 
warrior, concerning whom many stories are 
current in Roxburghshire. The Duk.: of Rox- 
burgh represents Ker of Cessloid. 

NoTF * 

Lord C,n :sloui'.. — P. 9. 
The Cranstour.s are ati ancient Border family, 
whose chief seat was in Crailing, in Teviotdale. 
They were at this time at feud with the clan of 
Scott ; for it appears that the Lady of Buc- 
cleuch, in 1557, beset the Laird of Cranstoun, 
seeking his life. Nevertheless, the same Cran- 
stoun, or perhaps his son, was married to a 
daughter of the same lady. 

Note g. 
0/Bethune's li-ne of Picardie. — P. 9. 
The Bethunes were of French origin, and 
derived their name from a small town in Artois. 
There were several distinguished farnilies of the 
Bethunes in the neighboring province of Pi- 
cardy ; they numbered among their descendants 
the celebrated Due de Sully, and the name was 
accounted among the most noble in France, 
■while aught nob.e temamed in that coiuitry.f 
The family of Bethune, or Beatoun, in Fife, 
j^roduced three learned and dij'nified prelates, 
namely, Cardinal Beaton, and two successive 
Archbishops of Glasgow, all of whrm flourished 
about the date of the romance. Of this family 



* The name is spelt differently by the various 
families who bear it. Carr is selected, not as the 
most correct, but as the most poetical reading. 

t This expression and sentiment were dic- 
tated by the situation of P'rance, in the year 
1803, when the poem was originally written. 
183 <. 



was descended Dame Janet Beaton, Lady Buc« 
cleuch, widow of Sir Waiter Scott of Brank- 
some. She was a woman of masculine spirit, 
as appeared from her riding at the head of her 
son's clan, after her husband's murder. She 
was believed by the superstition of the vulgar 
to possess supernatural knowledge. With this 
was mingled, by faction, the foul accusation oi 
her having influenced Queen Mary to tlie mur 
der of her husband. One of the placards, pre- 
served in Buchanan's Detection, accuses ot 
Jyarnley's murder "the Erie of Bothwell, Mr. 
James Balfour, the persoun of Fliske, Mr 
David Chalmers, black Mr. John Spens, who 
was principal deviser of the murder , and the 
Queen assenting thairto, throw the persuasion 
of the Erie Bothwei., and the withhcraft of 
Lady Buckleuch."" 

'Norti 10. 

Ht' lea'nd the a. t thai none may name, 
/'I Fadua,far beyond the sea. — P 9. 

Padua was long supposed by the Scottish 
peasants to be the principal school of necro- 
mancy- Th'e Earl of Gowrie, slain at Perth, 
in 1600, pretended, during his studies in Italy, 
to have acquired some knowledge of the cabala. 
-See the examination of Wemyss of Bogie, 
before the Pr:\y Council, concerning Cowrie's 
Conspiracy. 

NaTB ,n, 

Hisfortn no dt^kf^Tng shadow traced 
Upon the sitr.ny ivall.— P 9. 

The shadow cf a necrtmancer is independent 
of the sun. Glycas informs us that Simon Ma- 
gus caused his shadow to go before him, making 
people believe it was an attendant spirit. — 
Hevwood's Hierarchie, p. 475 A common 
superstition was that when a class of students 
had made a certain progress in their mystic 
studies, they were obliged to run through a 
subterranean hall, were the devil literally 
caught the hindmost in the race, unless he 
crossed the hail so speedily that the arch-enemy 
could only grasp his shadow. Hence the old 
Scotch proverb, " De'il take the hindmost." 
Sorcerers v.'ere often fabled to have given their 
shadows to the fiend. 

Note 12. 
By wily turns, by desperate bounds, 
Had baffled Percy'' s best blood-hou7ids. — P. 10. 

The kings and heroes of Scotland, as well as 
the Border-riders, were sometimes obliged to 
study how to evade the pursuit of blood-hounds. 
Barbour informs us that Robert Bruce was re- 
peated'y tracked by sleuth-dogs. On one occa- 
sion, he escaped by wading a bow-shot down 
a brook, and ascending into a tree by a branch 
which overhung tlie water ; thus, leaving no 
trace on land of his footsteps, he bafBed the 
scent. 

A sure way of stopping the dog was to spili 



fHE LAY OF THE LAST HUNS TK EL 



5^9 



blood upon the track, which destroyed the dis- 
crimii:ating fineness of his scent. A captive 
was sometimes sacrificed on such occasions. 
Henry the Minstrel telis a romantic story of 
Wallace, founded rji this circumstance :— The 
hero's little band had been joined by an Irish- 
man, named Fawdoun, or Fadzeau, a dark, 
savage, and suspicious character- After a 
sharp skirmish at Black- Erne Side, Wallace 
was forced to retreat with only sixteen fol- 
jowers, the English pursuing with a Border 
b.ood-hound. 

In the retreat, Fawdt^un, tired, or affecting 
to be so, would go no farther, and Wallace, 
having in vam argued with tiim, in hasty anger, 
struck off his head, and conunued the retreat. 
When the English came up, their hound stayed 
upon the dead body ; 

"The sleuth stopped at Fawdon, still she stood. 
Nor farther would, fra time she fund the blood." 

Note ij. 

But when Jlfelrose he reach' d," iwas silence all; 

He nteetly stabled his steed in stall, 

And sought the convent'' s lo?iely wall. — P. 12. 

The ancient and beautiful monastery of Mel- 
rose was founded by King David I. Its ruins 
afford the finest specimen of Gothic architecture 
and Gothic sculpture which Scotland can boast. 
The stone of which it is built, though it has 
resisted the weather for so many ages, retains 
perfect sharpness, so that even the most minute 
ornaments seem as entire as when newly 
wrought. 

Note 14. 
When the buttress and buttress, alternately, 
Seevt framed 0/ ebon and ivory ; 
When silver edges the imagery, 
A nd the scrolls that teach thee to live and die. 

Then viezv St. David'' s ruined pile. — P. 12. 

The buttresses ranged along the sides of the 
ruins of Melrose Abbey, are, according to the 
Gothic style, richly carved and fretted, con- 
taining niches for the statues of saints, and 
labelled with scrolls, bearing appropriate texts 
of Scripture. Most of these statues have been 
demolislied. 

David I. of Scotland, purchased the reputa- 
tion of sanctitf, by founding, and liberally en- 
dowing, not only the monastery of Melrose, 
but those of Kelso, Jedburgh, and many others; 
which led to the well-known observation of his 
successor, that he was a sore saint for the 
(rown. 

Note 15. 
A nd there the dying lamps did burn, 
Before thv loiv and lonely urn, 
O ga lla n't Ch ief of Otter bur ne .'— P . 13. 

The famous and desperate battle of Otter- 
burne was fought i^ih August, 1388, betwixt 
Henry Percy, called Hotspur, and Jnmes, Karl 



of Douglas. Both these renowned rival cham* 
pious were at the head of a chosen body of 
troops. The Earl of Douglas was slain ir. the 
action. He was buried af Melrose, beneath 
the high altar. 

Notb 16. 

dark Knight of Liddesdale. — P- 13. 

William Douglas, called the Knight of Lid- 
desdale, flourished during the reign of David 
II., and was so distinguished by his valor, 
that he was called the Flower of Chivalry. 
Nevertheless, he tarnished hi^renown by the 
cruel murder of Sir Alexander Ramsay oi Dal- 
housie, criginaily his friend and brother in 
arms. The King had conferred upon Ramsay 
the sheriffdom of Teviotdale, to which Douglas 
pretended some claim. In revenge of this pief- 
erence, the Knight of Liddesdale came down 
upon Ramsay, while he was administering jus- 
tice at Haw; .k, seized and carried him cff to 
his remote aud inaccessible castle ct Hermitage, 
where he threw his unfortunate prisoner, horse 
and man, into a durgeon, leaving him to perish 
of hunger. 

NoTR 17. 

the wondrous Michael Scott. —"P. 14. 

Sir Michael Scott of Balweane flourished 
during the 13th centuiy, and was one of the 
ambassadors sent to bring the maid of Norway 
to Scotland upon the death of Alexander III. 
By a poetical anachronism, lie is here placed in 
a later era. He was a man of much learning, 
ihiefly acquired in foreign countries. He wiote 
a commentary upon Aristotle, printed at Venice 
in 1496: and several treatises upon natural 
philosophy, from which he appears to have 
been addicted to the abstruse studies of judicial 
astrology, aichymy, physiognomy, and chiro- 
mancy. Her.cehc passed among his contempo- 
raries for a skilful magician. Dempster infornis 
us that he lemenibers to have heard m his 
youth that the magic books of Michael Scott 
were still in existence, but could not be opened 
without danger, on account of the malignant 
fiends who were thereby invoked. 

Tradition varies concerning the place of his 
burial ; some contend for Home Coltrame, in 
Cumberland ; others for Melrose Abbey But 
all agree that his books of magic were interred 
in his grave, or preserved in the rnvent where 
he died. 

NoTH r8. 
The ivordi chat cleft Eildon hills in three. — 

P 14. 

Michael Scott was, once upon a time, much 
embarrassed by a spirit, for whom he was under 
the necessity v\ finding constant employment. 
He commandeQ him to build a cauld, or dam- 
head, across the Tweed at Kelso ; it was ac- 
complished in one night, and still does honor 
to the infernal architect. Michael next ordered 
that Eildon hill, which was then a uniform 



590 



A/ r/ixjjIX. 



cone, should be divided into three. Another 
night was sufficient to part its summit into the 
three picturesque peaks which it now bears. 
At length the enchanter conquered this inde- 
fatigable demon, by employing him in the 
hopeless and endless task of making ropes out 
of sea->sand. 

Note 19. 
The Baron'' s D-vuarf his courser field. — P. 16. 

The idea of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page is 
taken from a being called Gilpin Horner, who 
appeared, and Tnade some stay, at a farm-house 
among the Border mountains. 

Note 20. 
A II was delusion, naught was truth. — P. 19. 
Glamour^ in the legends of Scottish super- 
stition, means the magic power of imposing on 
the eyesight of the spectators, so that the ap- 
pearance of an object shall be totally different 
from the reality. To such a charm the ballad 
of Johnny Fa imputes the fascination of the 
lovely Countess, who eloped with that gipsy 
leader ; — 

" Sae soon as they saw her weel-far'd face, 
They cast the glamour o'er her." 

Note 21. 

Until they came to a woodlaftd brook ; 

The running stream dissolved the spell. — 

P. 19. 

It is a firm article of popular faith, that no 
enchantment can subsist in a living stream. 
Nay, if you can interpose a brook betwixt you 
and witches, spectres, or even fiends, you are 
in perfect safety. Burns's iainiitable Tarn o' 
Shantet turns entirely upon such a superstition. 

Note ^^■ 
Hf never counted him a na-fif 

Would strike below the knee.—Y. 18. 

T; wound an antagonist m the trlgn c '.eg 
was reckoned contrary to the law of arms In 
a tilt betwixt Gawain Michael, an English 
squire, and Joachim Cathore, a Prencnman, 
"they met at the speare poyntes rudeiy ; the 
French squyer justed right pleasa.uly ; the 
Englishman ran too lowe, for he strak the 
Frenchman depe into the thigh. Wherewith the 
Erie of Buckingham was right sore displeased, 
and so were all the other lords, and sayde how 
it was shamefully done."~FROissART, vol. i. 
chap. 366. 

Note 23. 
On many a cairn's gray pyramid, 
IVhere urns 0/ mighty chiefs lie hid.— 'P. 22. 

The cairns, or riles of loose stones, which 
crown the summit of most cf our Scottish hills, 
and are found in other remarkable situations, 
seem usually, though not universally, to have 
been eepu'.c'.iral oapnunients. Six flat stones 



are commonly found in the centre, forming a 
cavity of greater or smaller dimensions, in winch 
an urn is oiieii placed. The autlwr is possessed 
of one, discovered beneath an immense cairn at 
Roughlee, in L'.ddesdale. It is of the most 
barbarous construction ; the middle of the sub- 
stance alone having been subjected to the fire, 
over which, when hardened, the artist had laid 
ail inner and outer coat of unbaked clay, etched 
with sotne very rude ornament, his skill appar- 
ently being inadequate to baking the vase when 
completely finished. The contents were bones 
and ashes, and a quantity of beads made of 
coal. This seems to have been a barbarous 
imitation of the Roman fashion of sepulture. 

Note 24. 

For pathless marsh, and mountain cell. 
The peasant left his lowly shed. — P. 22. 

The morasses were the usual refuge of th< 
Border herdsmen on the approach of an English 
^xm^. -{Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. 
i- P- 393) Caves, hewed in the 1 t dangerous 
and inaccessible places, also afforded an occa- 
sional retreat. Such cavemt may be seen in 
the precipitous banks of the Teviot at Sunlaws, 
upon the Ale at Ancram, upon the Jed at Hun- 
dalee, and in many other places upon the 
Border. The banks of the Eske, at Gorton and 
Hawthornden, are hollowed into similar re- 
cesses. 

Note 25. 
H^aii Tinlinn.—P. 23. 

This person was, in my younger days, the 
theme of many a fireside tale. He was a re- 
tainer of the Buccleuch family, and held for his 
Border service a small tower on the frontiers of 
Liddesdale. Watt was by profession a sutor, 
but by Inclination and practice an archer and 
vja.ror. Upon occasion, the captain ol Bew- 
<:astle, military governor of that wild district of 
Camberland, is said to have made an incursion 
mto Scotland, in which he was defeated, and 
forced to fly. Watt Tinlinn pursued him closely 
through a dangerous morass ; the captain, how- 
ever, gained the firm ground ; and, seeing Tin- 
linn dismounted and floundering in the bog, 
jsed these words of insult .— " Sutor Watt, ye 
cannot sew your boots ; the heels risp, and the 
seams ri7'e " * — " If I cannot sew, retorted 
T iniinn, discharging a shaft, whurh nailed the 
c?.pta:r-s thigh to the saddle, "if I cannot sevr 
I can yerk." t 

Note 26. 
Belied Will Howard.— '?. 23. 

Lord William Howard, third son o£ Thomas, 
Duke of Norfolk, succeeded to Naworth Castle, 
and a large domain annexed to it, in right of his 
wife Elizabeth, sister oi George Lord Dacre, 



* Risp, creak. — Rive, tear, 
t Yerk, to twitch, as shoemaker* do, in 
ing tlie stitcher of their work. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



59^ 



who died without heh-s male, 'n the nth of 
Queen Elizabeth. By a poetical anachronism, 
he is introduced into the romance a few years 
earlier than he actually flourished. He was 
warden of the Western Marches : and, from the 
rigor with which he repressed the Border 
excesses, the name of Belted Will Howard is 
still famous in our traditions. 

Note 27. 

Lord Dacre. — P. 23. 

The well-known name of Dacre is derived 
from the exploits of one of their ancestors at the 
siege of Acre, or Ptolemais, under Richard 
Ccaur de Lion. 

Note 28. 

The Gertnan hackbut-men. — P. 23 . 

In the wars with Scotland, Henry VIII. and 
his successors employed numerous bands of 
mercenary troops. At the battle of Pinky, there 
were in the English army six hundred hack- 
butters on foot, and two hundred on horseback, 
composed chiefly of foreigners. On the 27th of 
September, 1549, the Duke of Somerset, Lord 
Protector, writes thus to the Lord Dacre, warden 
of the West Marches: — "The Almaihsj in 
number two thousand, very valiant soldiers, 
shall be sent to you shortly from Newcastle, to- 
gether with Sir Thomas Holcroft, and with the 
force of your wardenry (which we would were 
advanced to the most strength of liorsemen that 
might be), shall make the attempt to Lough- 
maben, being of no such strength but that it 
may be skailed with ladders, whereof, before- 
hand, we would you caused secretly some 
number to be provided ; or else undermined 
with the pyke-axe, and so taken : either to be 
kept for the King's Majesty, or otherwise to be 
defaced, and taken from the profits of the 
enemy. And in like manner the house of Car- 
laverock to be used. ^—History 0/ Cumber- 
land, vol. i, Introd" p. Ixi. 

Note 29. 

** Ready, aye ready,'''' for the field.— Y. 23. 

Sir John Scott of Thirlestane flourished in 
the reign of James V., and possessed the estates 
of Thirlestanej Gamescleuch, &c., lying upon 
the river of Ettrick, and extending to St. Mary's 
Loch, at the head of Yarrow. It appears that 
when James had assembled his nobility and 
their feudal followers, at Fala, with the purpose 
of invading England, and was,as is well-known, 
disappointed by the obstinate refusal of his 
peers, this baron alone declared himself ready 
to follow the King wherever he should lead. In 
memory of his fidelity, James granted to his 
family a charter of arms, entitling them to bear 
2. border of fleurs-de-luce, similar to the tres- 
sure in the royal arms, with a bundle of spears 
Sor the crest ; motto, Ready^ aye ready. 



Note 30. 
Their gathering word was Bellenden. — V ■ 25. 
Bellenden is situated near the head of Borth- 
wick water, and being in tlis centre of the pos- 
sessions of the Scotts, was frequently used as 
their place of rendezvous and gathering word. 

Note 31. 

TJiat he vtay suffer march-treason paix^ — 

P. 27. 

Several species of offences, peculiar to tJie 
Border, constituted what was called march- 
treason. Among others, was the crime of 
riding, or causing to ride, against the opposite 
country during the time of truce. Thus, in an 
indenture made on tbe25th day of March, 1334, 
betwixt noble lords Sirs Henry Percy, Earl of 
Northumberland, and Archibald Douglas, Lord 
of Galloway, a truce is agreed upon until the 
ist day of July, and it is expressly accorded, 
" Gif ony stellis authir on the ta part, or on the 
tothyr, that he shall be hanget or heofdit ; and 
gif ony company .stellis any gudes within the 
tneux beforesayd, ane of that company sail be 
hanget or heofdit, and the remnant sail restore 
the guyds stolen in the dubble." — History of 
IVestmoreland and Cumberland^ Introd. p. 
xxxix. 

Note 32. 
Knighthoodhe took of Douglas^ sword. — P. 27. 

The dignity of knighthood, according to the 
original institution, had this peculiarity, that it 
did not flow from the monarch, but could be 
conferred by one who himself possessed it, upon 
any squire who, after due probation, was found 
to merit tiie honor of chivalry. Latterly, this 
power was confined to generals, who were wont 
to create knights bannerets after or before an 
engagement. 

Note 33. 
WJien English blood swell' d A ncram' s ford. — 

P. 27. 

The battle of Ancram Moor, m Penielheuch, 
was fought A. D. 1545. The E-glish, com- 
manded by Sir Ralph Evers and .Sir Brian 
Latoun, ware totally routed, and both their 
leaders slain in the action. The Scottish army 
was commanded by Archibald Douglas, Earl of 
Angus, assisted by the Laird of Buccleuch ana 
Norman Lesley. 

Note 34. 

For who, infield or foray slack, 

Saw the blanche lion e'' er fall back. — P. 28. 

This was the cognizance of the noble houss 
of Howard in all its branches. The crest, or 
bearing of a' warrior, was often used as a 
nomme de guerre. 

Note 35. 
The Bloody H art blazed in the van, 
A n7iauncing Douglas, dreaded name. — P. fo> 

The cliief of this potent race of heroes, < 



i92 



APPENDIX. 



the date of the poem, was Archibald Douglas, 
seventh Earl of Angus, a man of great courage 
and activity. The Bloody Heart was the well- 
known cognizance of the House of Douglas, 
assumed from the time of good Lord James, to 
whose care Robert Bruce committed his heart, 
to be carried to the Holy Land. 

Note 36. 

And Swinton laid the lance in rest. 
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest 
Of Clarence's Plajiiagenet. — P. 30. 
At the battle of Beauge, in France, Thomas, 
Duke of Clarence, brother to Henry V., was 
unhorsed by Sir John Swmton, of Swinton, who 
distinguished him by a coronet set with precious 
stones, which he wore around his helmet. The 
family of Swinton is one of the most ancient 
in Scotland, and produced many celebrated 
warriors. 

Note 37. 
And shouting siili^ A Hotm ! a Home I — P. 30. 

The Earls of Home, as descendants of the 
Dunbars, ancient Earls of March, carried ,a 
lion rampant, argent : but, as a difference, 
changed the color of the shield from gules to 
vert, in allusion to Greenlaw, their ancient 
possession. The slogan or war-cry of this 
powerful family, was, '' A Home! a Home! " 
It was anciently placed in an escrol above the 
crest. The helmet is armed with a lion's head 
erased gules, with a cap of state gules, turned 
up ermine. 

The Hepburns, a powerful family in East 
Lothian, were usually 'n close alliance with the 
Homes. The chief of this clan was Hepburn, 
Lord of Hailes : a family which terminated in 
the too famous Earl of Bothweii. 

NOTR sS. 

Twixt truce, ami u.ar tuck siidden change 
Was not infrequent, no^' held strange, 
In the old Bordei^-day. — ?. 30. 

Notwithstanding the consfant wars upon the 
Borders, and the Dccasiona! cruelties which 
marked the mutual Inroads, che inhabitants on 
either side do not appear to have regarded each 
other with that violent and personal animosity 
which might have been expected. On the con- 
trary, like the outposts of hostile armies, they 
often carried on something resembling friendly 
intercourse, even in the middle of hostilities ; 
and It is evident, from various ordinances 
against trade and intermarriages, between Eng- 
lish «nd Scottish Bor'derers, that the govern- 
ments of both countries were jealous of their 
chenshing too intimate a cor.nection, 

Note 31 

on I he darkenitig f>lane^ 

LoKd hollo, whoop, or whistle ran^ 



A s bands, their stragglers to regain. 

Give the shrill watchword of their clan.~- 
P.31. 

Patten remarks, with bitter censure, the dis- 
orderly conduct of the English Borderers, who 
attended the Protector Somerset on his expe» 
dition against Scotland. 

Note 40. 
She wrought not by forbidden spell, — P. 35, 
Popular belief, though contrary to the doc- 
trines of the Church, made a favorable dis- 
tinction betwixt magicians and necromancers, 
or wizards : the former were supposed to com- 
mand the evil spirits, and the latter to serve, 
or at least to be in league and compact with, 
those enemies of mankind. The arts of sub- 
jecting the demons were manifold ; sonietimes 
the fiends were actually swindled by the ma- 
gicians.* 

Note 41- 

A merlin sat upon hsr 'U.'risi, 

Held by a leash of silken twist = — P. 36. 

A merlin, or sparrow-hawk, was actually 
carried by ladies of rank, as a falcon was, in 
time of peace, the constant attendant of a 
knight or baron. See Latham on Falconry. 
— Godscroft relates, that when Mary of Lor- 
raine was regent she pressed the Earl of Angus 
to admit a royal garrison into his Castle of 
Tantallon. To this he returned no direct an- 
swer ; but, as if apostrophizing a goss-hawk, 
which sat on his wrist, and which he was feed- 
ing during the Queen's speech, he exclaimed, 
"The devil's in this greedy glede, she will 
never be full.'' Hume's History of the House 
of* Douglas, 1743, vol. 11. p. 131. Barclay 
complains of the common and indecent practice 
of bringing hawks and hounds into churches. 

Note 42. 

A nd princely peacock'' s gilded train, 

And o'er the boar-head garnished braz>e.-^ 

P. 3('. 

The peacock, it is well known, was con- 
sidered, ■ during the times of chivalry, not 
merely as an exquisite delicacy, but as a dish 
of peculiar solemnity. After being roasted, it 
was again decorated with its plumage, and a 
sponge, dinped in lighted spirits of wine, was 
placed in its bill. When it was introduced on 
days of grand festival, it was the signal for the 
adventurous knights to take upon them vows 
to do some deed of chivalry, "before ihe 
peacock and the ladies." 

The boar's head was also a usual dish of 
feudal splendor. In Scotland it was some- 
times surrounded with little banners displaying 
the colors and achievements of the baron at 



* There are rome amusing German and Irish 
stories to that e-ffect. 



MARMION. 



593 



whose board it was served. — Pinkbrton's 
History^ vol. i. p. 432. 

Note 43. 

Smo/e, with his gauntlet^ stout Hunthill. — 

P. 36. 
The Rutherfords of Hunthill were an an- 
cient race of Border Lairds, whose names 
occur in history, sometimes as defending the 
frontier against the English, sometimes as dis- 
turbing the peace of their own country. Dickon 
Draw-the-sword was son to the ancient war- 
rior, called in tradition the Cock of Hunthili. 
remarkable for leading into battle nine sons, 
gallant warriors, all sons of the aged champiju. 

Note 44. 

• bit his glove. — P. 36. 

To bite the thumb, or the glove, seems not 
to have been considered, upon tlie Border, 
as a gesture of contempt, though so used by 
Shakspeare, but as a pledge of mortal revenge. 
It is yet remembered, that a young gentleman 
of Teviotdale, on the morning after a hard 
drinking-bout, observed that he had bitten 
his glove. He instantly demanded of his 
companion with whom he had quarrelled ? 
And, learning that he had had words with one 
of the party, insisted on instant satisfaction, 
asserting that though he remembered nothing 
of the dispute, yet he was sure he never would 
have bit his glove unless he had received some 
unpardonable insult. He fell in the duel, 
which was fought near Selkirk, in 1721. 

Note 45. 

old A Ibert Grceme., 

The Minstrel 0/ thai aricient name. — P. 37. 

*' John Grjene, second son of Malicey Earl 

of Menteiih, commonly surnamed jfohn with 



the Bright Sword, upon some displeasure risen 
against him at court, letired with many of his 
clan and kindred into the English Borders, in 
the reign of King Henry the Fourtli, where 
they seated themselves ; and many of their 
posterity have continued ever since. Mr. 
Sandford, speaking of them, says (which in- 
deed was applicable to most of the Borderers 
on both sides), ' They were all stark moss- 
troopers, and arrant thieves : both to England 
and Scotland outlawed ; yet sometimes con- 
nived at, because they gave intelligence forth 
of Scotland, and would raise 400 horse at any 
time upon a raid of the English into Scotland. 
A saying is recorded of a mother to her son, 
(which is now become proverbial,) Ride, Rozv- 
ley, hough'' s V the pot: that is, the last piece of 
beef was in the pot, and therefore it was high 
time for him to go and fetch more.' " — Intro* 
duction to tJie History of Cumberland- 

Note 46. 

Who has not heard 0/ Surrey'' s fame ? — P. 37. 

The gallant and unfortunate Henry Howardf 
Earl of Surrey, was unquestionably the most 
accomplished cavalier of his time ; jnd his 
sonnets display beauties which would dd 
honor to a more polished age. Hj was be- 
headed on Tower-hill in 1546 ; a victim to the 
mean jealousy of Henry Vlll., who could not 
bear so brilliant a character near his throne. 

The song of the supposed bard is founded on 
an incident said to have happened to the Earl 
in his travels. Cornelius Agrippa, the cele- 
brated alchemist, showed him in a looking- 
glass the lovely CJeraldine, to whose service he 
had devoted his pen and his sword. The 
vision represented her as indisposed, and re- 
clining upon a couch, reading her lover's versM 
by the light of a waxen taper. 



MARMION. 



N0T8 1. 

^* when the Champion of the Lake 
Enters Morgana' s fated house, 
Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
Despising spells ajid detnons' force, 
Holds converse with the unburied corse. — P.47. 
The romance of the Morte Arthur contains a 
sort of abridgement of the most celebrated ad- 
ventures of the Round Table ; and, being \vrit- 
ten in comparatively modem language, gives 
the general reader an excellent idea of what 
romances of chivalrv actually were. It has 



also the inerit of being written in pure old 
English ; and many of the wild adventures 
which it contains are told with a simplicity 
bordering upon the sublime. Several of these 
are referred to in the text ; and I would have 
illustrated them by more full extracts, but as 
this curious work 'is about to be republished, 
I confine myself to the tale of the Chapel 
Perilous, and of the quest of Sir Launcelot 
after the Sangreal 

"Right so Sir Launcelot departed, and 
when he came to the Chapell Perilous, he 
alighted downe, and tied hjs horse to a little 



594 



APFEiVDIX. 



gale. And as soon as -he was within the 
churchyard, ha saw on the front oi the chapell, 
many faire rich shields turned upside downe ; 
and many of the shields Sir "^^auncelot had 
seene knights hare before ; with that he saw 
stand by him thirtie great knights, more, by a 
yard, than any man that ever he had seene. 
and all those grinned and gnashed at Sir 
Launcelot ; and when he saw their counte- 
nance, hee dread them sore, and so put his 
shield afore him, and tooke his sword in his 
hand, ready to doe battaile ; and they were all 
armed in black harneis, ready, with their 
shields and swords drawn. And when Sir 
Launcelot would have gone through them, 
they scattered on every side of him, and gave 
him the way ; and therewith he waxed all bold, 
and entered into the chapell, and then hee saw 
no light but a dimme lampe burning, and then 
was he ware of a corps covered with a cloath 
of silke ; then Sir Launcelot stooped downe, 
and cut a piece of that cloth away, and then it 
fared under him as the earth had quaked a 
little, whereof he was afeard, and then hee saw 
a faire sword lye by the dead knight, and that 
he gat in his hand, and hied him out of the 
chappell. As soon as he was in the chappell- 
yerd, all the knights spoke to him with a 
grimly voice, and said, * Knight, Sir Launce- 
lot, lay that sword from thee, or else thou shalt 
die.' — * Whether I live or die,' said Sir Launce- 
lot, ' with no great words get yee it againe. 
therefore fight for it and yee list.' Therewith 
he passed through them ; and, beyond the chap- 
pell-yerd, there met him a faire damosell, and 
said, ' Sir Launcelot, leave that sword behind 
thee, o^ thou wilt die for it.*—* 1 will not leave 
it,' said Sir Launcelot, ' for no threats,' — ' No ? ' 
said she \ 'and ye did leave that sword, Queen 
Guenever shculdye never see.' — 'Then were I 
a fool and I would leave this sword,' said Sir 
Launcelot, — * Now, gentle knight,' said the 
damosell, ' I require thee to kiss me once.' — 
• Nay,' said Sir Launcelot, ' that God forbid ! ' 
'Well, sir,' said she, ' and thou haddest kissed 
ine thy life dayes had been done, but now, 
alas! ' said she, ' I have lost all my labor ; for 
I ordeined this chappell for thy sake, and for 
Sir Gawaine ; and once i had Sir Gawaine 
within it ; and at that time he fought with that 
knight which there, lieth dead in yonder chap- 
pell, Sir Gilbert the bastard, and at that time 
nee smote off Sir Gilbert the bastard's left 
hand. And so. Sir Launcelot, now I tell thee, 
that I have loved thee these seaven yeare ; but 
ItlCte may no woman have thy love but Queene 
Oi''-t^^ver ; but sithen I may not rejoyice thee 
to have thy body alive, I had kept no more joy 
in this world but to have had thy dead body ; 
and I would have balmed it and served, and so 
hav2 kept it in my life daies^ and daily I should 
bavt clipped thee, and kissed thee, in the 
despitv. of Queen Guenever.' — 'Yee say well,* 
dttid Sir Luuncelot } 'Jesus preserve mc from 
Teur subti!l craft.' And th?r>\vith he took his 
•one, and departed from licr." 



Note 2. 

A sinful Man, and unconfess^ d^ 

He took the SangreaV s holy quests 

A nd, slumber htg, saw the vision higkf 

He might 7iot view with waking eye. — P. 47« 

One day, when Arthur was holding a high 
feast with his knights of the Round Table, the 
Sangreal, or vessel out of which the last pass- 
over was eaten (a precious relic, which had 
long remained concealed from human eyes, 
becjuse of the sins of the land), suddenly ap- 
pear d to him and all his chivalry. The con- 
sequence of this vision was, that all the knights 
took on them a solemn vow to seek the San- 
greal. But alas ! it could only be revealed to 
a knight at once accomplished in earthly 
chivalry, and pure and guiltless of evil conver- 
sation. All Sir Launcelot's noble accomplish- 
ments were therefore rendered vain by his 
guilty intrigue with Queen Guenever or Ganore; 
and in his holy quest he encountered only 
such disgraceful disasters as that which fol- 
lows : — 

" But Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and 
endlong in a wild forest, and held no path but 
as wild adventure led him ; and at the last he 
came unto a stone crosse, which departed two 
wayes, in wast land ; and, by the crosse, was 
a stone that was of marble ; but it was so dark, 
that Sir Launcelot might not well know what 
it was. Then Sir Launcelot looked by him, 
and saw an old chappell, and there he wend to 
have foundpeople. And so Sir Launcelot tiedhis 
horse to a tree, and there he put off his shield, 
and hung it upon a tree, and then hee went 
unto the chappell doore, and found it wasted 
and broken. And within he found a faire 
altar, full richly arrayed with cloth of silk, and 
there stood a {aire candlestick, which beare six 
great candles, and the candlesticke was of 
s.lver. And when Sir Launcelot saw this light, 
he had a great will for to enter into the chap- 
pell, but he could find no place where hee 
rfiight enter. Then was hee passing heavie and 
dismaied. Then hee returned, and came againe 
to his horse, and tooke off his saddle and his 
bridle, and let him pasture, and unlaced his 
helme, and ungirded his sword, and laid him 
downe to sleepe upon his shield, before the 
crosse, 

"And so hee fell on sleepe; and, half* 
waking and halfe sleeping, he saw come by 
him two palfreys, both faire and white, the 
which beare a litter, therein lying a sick« 
knic^ht. And when he was nigh the crosse, he 
there abode still. All this Sir Launcelot saw 
and beheld, for hee slept not verily, and hee 
heard him say, • O sweete Lord, when shall 
this sorrow leave me, and when shall the holy 
vessell come by me, where through I shall be 
blessed, for I have endured thus long for little 
trespasse ! ' And thus a great while complained 
th>i knight, and alwaies Sir Launcelot heard it. 
With fhat Sir Launcelot saw the candlesticke, 



MARMION. 



595 



with the fire tapers, come before the crosse ; 
but he could see nobody that brought it. Also 
there came a table of silver, and the holy 
vessell of the Sancgreall, the which Sir Launce- 
lot had seen before that time in King Pet- 
chour's house. And therewithal! the sicks 
knight ?at him upright, and held up both his 
hands, and said, ' Faire sweele Lord, winch is 
here within the holy vessell, take heede to 
mee, that I may bee hole of this great mal- 
ady ! ' And therewith upon his hands, and 
tipon his knees, he went so nigh, tiiat he 
touched the holy vessell and kissed it: And 
anon he was hole, and then he said, ' Lord 
God, I thank thee, for I am healed of this 
malady.' Soo when the holy vessell had been 
there a great while, it went into the chappelle 
againe, with the candlesticke and the light, so 
that Sir Launcelot wist not where it became, 
for he was overtaken with sinne, that hee had 
no power to arise against the holy vessell, 
wherefore afterward many men said of him 
shame. But he tooke repentance afterward. 
Then thi'; sicke knight dressed him upright, and 
kissed the crosse. Then anon his squire 
brought him his armes, and asked his lord how 
he did. 'Certainly,' said hee, ' I thanke God 
right heartily, for through the holy vessell I am 
healed: But I have right great mervaile of 
this sleeping knight, which hath had neither 
grace nor power to awake during the time that 
this holy vessell hath beene here present.' — ' I 
dare it right well say,* said the squire, * that 
this same knight is defouled with some manner 
of deadly sinne, whereof he has never con- 
fessed.' ~ ' By my faith,' said the knight, 

* whatsoever he be he is unhappie ; for, as I 
deeme, hee is of the fellowship of the Round 
Table, the which is entered into the quest of 
the Sancgreall.'— ' Sir,' said the squire, 'here 
I have brought you all your armes, save your 
helmeand your sword ; and, therefore, by mine 
assent, now may ye take this knight's helme 
and his sword ; ' and so he did. And when he 
was cleane armed, he took Sir Launcelot's 
horse, for he was better than his owne, and so 
they departed from the crosse. 

"Then anon Sir Launcelot awaked, and set 
himselfe upright, and he thought him what hee 
had there scene, and whether it were dreames 
or not ; right so he heard a voice that said, 

* Sir Launcelot, more hardy than is the stone, 
and more bitter than is the wood, and more 
naked and bare than is the liefe of the fig-tree, 
therefore go thou from hence, and withdraw 
thee from this holy place' and when Sir 
Launcelot heard this he was passing heavy, 
and wist not what to doe. And so he departed 
sore weeping, and cursed the time that he was 
borne ; for then he deemed never to have had 
more worship ; for the words went unto his 
lie;>rt, till that he knew wherefore that hee was 
p<^ -Ailed." 



Note j. 

A nd Dry den, in immortal strain, 

Had raised the Table Round again. — P. 47, 

Dryden's melancholy account of his pro- 
jected Epic Poem, blasted by the selfish and 
sordid parsimony of his patrons, is contained in 
an " Essay on Satire," addressed to the Earl 
of Dorset, and prefixed to the Translation o 
Juvenal. After mentioning a plan of supplying 
machinery from the guardian angels of king- 
doms, mentioned in the Book of Daniel, he 
adds : — 

" Thus, my lord, I have, as briefly as I 
could, given your lordship, and by you the 
world, a rude draught of what I have been 
long laboiing in my imagination, and what 
I had intended to have put in practice ; 
(though far unable for the attempt of such a 
poem ;) and to have left the stage, to which 
my genius never much inclined me, for a 
work which would .have taken up my life in 
the performance of it. This, too, I had in- 
tended chiefly for the honor of my native 
country, to which a poet is particularly obliged. 
Of two subjects, both relating to it, I was 
doubtful whether I should choose that of King 
Arthur conquering the Saxons, which, being 
farther distant in time, gives the greater scope 
to my invention ; or that of Edward the Black 
Prince, in subduing Spain and restoring it to 
the lawful prince, though a great tyrant, Don 
Pedro the Cruel ; which, for the compass of 
time, including only the expedition of one year, 
for the greatness of the action and its answer- 
able event, for the magnanimity of the English 
hero, opposed to the ingratitude of the person 
whom he restored, and for the many beautiful 
episodes which I had interwoven with the 
principal design, together with the characters 
of the chiefest English persons, (vi^herein, after 
Virgil and Spenser, I would have taken occasion 
to represent my living friends and patrons of the 
noblest families, and also shadowed the events 
of future ages in the succession of our imperial 
line,) — with these helps, and those of the 
machines which I have mentioned, I might 
perhaps have done as well as some of my pre- 
decessors, or at least chalked out a way for 
others to amend my errors in a like design ; but 
I being encouraged only with fair words by King 
I Charles IL, my little salary ill paid, and no 
prospect of future subsistence, I was then dis« 
couraged in the beginning of my attempt ; and 
now age has overtaken me, and want, a more 
insufferable evil, through the change of the 
times, ha<5 wholly disabled me." 

NoTB 4. 

Their theme the merry minstrels made. 
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold.—V. 48. 

The *• History of Bevis of Hampton " is 
abridged by my friend Mr. George Ellis, with 
tha' bveliness which extracts amusement evea 



596 



APPENDIX. 



out of the most rude and unpromising of our 
old tales of chivalry. Ascapart, a most import- 
ant personage in the romance, is thus described 
in an extract :— 

*' This geaunt was mighty and strong. 

And full thirty foot was long. 

He was bristled like a sow ; 

A foot he had between each brow ; 

His lips were great, and hung aside ; 

His eyen were hollow, liis mouth was wide ; 

Lothly he was to look on than, 

And liker a devil than a man. 

His staff was a young oak. 

Hard and heavy was his stroke." 

Specimens of Metrical Romances, 
vol. ii. p. 136. 

I am happy to say that the memory of Sir 
^evis is still fragrant in his town of Southamp- 
ton ; the gate of which is sentinelled by the 
effigies of that doughty knight-errant and his 
gigantic associate. 

Note 5. 
Day set on Nor ham's castled steep, 
A nd Tweed's /air river, broad and deep, &'c. 

P. 48. 
The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently 
called Ubbanford) is situated on the southern 
bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Ber- 
wick, and where that river is still the boundary 
between England and Scotland. The extent of 
its ruins, as well as its historical importance, 
shows it to have been a place of magnificence, 
as well as strength. Edward I. resided there 
when he was created umpire of the dispute con- 
cerning the Scottish succession. It was re- 
peatedly taken and retaken during the wars 
between England and Scotland ; and, indeed, 
scarce any happened, in which it had not a 
principal share. Norham Castle is situated on 
a steep bank which overhangs the river. The 
repeated sieges which the castle had sustained 
rendered frequent repairs necessary. In 1164, 
it was almost rebuilt by Hugh Pudsey, Bishop 
of Durham, who added a huge keep, or donjon ; 
notwithstanding which, King Henry II., in 
1 1 74, took the castle from the bishop and com- 
mitted the keeping of it to William de Neville. 
After this period it seems to have been chiefly 
garrisoned by the King, and considered as a 
royal fortress. The Greys of Chillingham 
Castle were frequently the castellans, or cap- 
tains of the garrison: yet, as the castle was 
situated m the patrimony of St. Cuthbart, the 
property was in the see of Durham till the Re- 
formation. After that period it passed through 
various hands. At the ui.,on of tlie crowns, it 
was in the possession of Sir Robert Carey (after- 
wards Ear', of Monmouth), for his own life, and 
that of two of his sons. After King James's 
accession, Carey sold Norham Castle to George 
Home, Earl of Dunbar, for 6000/. See his 
curious Memoirs, published by Mr. Constable 
8< Edinburgh. 



According to Mr. Pinkerton, there is, in th« 
British Museum, Cal, B. 6. 216, a curious 
memoir of the Dacres on the state of Norham 
Castle in 1522, not long after the battle of 
Flodden. The inner ward, or keep, is repre- 
sented as impregnable :—" The provisions are 
three great vats of salt eels, forty-four kine, 
three hogsheads of salted salmon, forty quarters 
of grain, besides many cows and four hundred 
sheep, lying under the castle-wall nightly ; but 
a number of the arrows wanted feathers, and a, 
good Fletcher (/. e. maker of arrows) was re^ 
^}x\x&^:'— History 0/ Scotland, vol. ii. p. 201, 
note. 

The ruins of the castle are at present con- 
siderable, as well as picturesque. They consist 
of a large shattered tower, with many vaults, 
and fragments of other edifices enclosed within 
an outward wall of great circuit. 

Note 6. 
Th* battled towers, tJie donjon keep.— P. 48. 

It is perhaps unnecessary to remind my 
readers that the donjon, in its proper significa- 
tion, means the strongest part of a feudal castie; 
a high square tower, with walls of a tremendous 
thickness, situated in the centre of the other 
buildings, from which, however, it was usually 
detached. Here, in case of the outward de- 
fences being gained, the garrison retreated to 
make their last stand. The donjon contained 
the great hall and principal rooms of state for 
solemn occasions, and also the prison of the for- 
tress ; from which last circumstance we derive 
the modern and restricted use of the word 
dungeon. Ducange {voce Dunjo) conjectures 
plausibly, that the name is derived from these 
keeps being usually buDt upon a hill, which in 
Celtic is called Dun. Borlase supposes the 
word came from, the darkness of the apartments 
in these towers, which were thence figuratively 
called Dungeons; thus deriving the ancient 
word from the modern application of it 

Note 7. 
Well was he arm'' d from head to heel. 
In mail and plate of Milan steel. — P. 49. 
The artists of Milan were famous in tho 
Middle Ages for their skill in armory, as ap. 
pears from the following passage, in which 
Froissart gives an account of the preparations 
made by Henry, Earl of Hereford, afterwards 
Henry IV., and Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, 
Earl Marischal, for their proposed combat in 
the lists at Coventry: — "These two lords made 
ample provision of all things necessary for the 
combat ; and the Earl of Derby sent off mes- 
sengers to Lombardy, to have armor from Sir 
Galeas, Duke of Milan. The Duke complied 
with joy, and gave the knight, called Sir 
Francis, who had brought the message, the 
choice of all his armor for the Earl of Derby. 
When he had selected what he wished for in 
plated and mail armor, the Lord of Milan, out 



MARMION. 



597 



of his abundant love for the Earl, ordered four 
of the best armorers i i Milan to accompany 
the knight to England,, that the Earl of Derby 
might be more completely armed." — Johnks' 
JFrotssaft, vol. ;v. p. 597. 

NOTK 8. 

lyfia check: »i me^ to death is dight. — P. 49. 

The crest and troito of Marmion are bor- 
rowed from the foliowing story ; — Sir David de 
Lindsay, first Eati of Crauford, was, among 
other gentlemen of quality, attended during a 
visit to London, m 1390, by Sir William Dalzell, 
who was, according to my authority, Bower, j 
not only excelling m wisdom, but also of a lively I 
wit. Chancing to be at the court, he there saw | 
Sir Piers Courtenay, an Enghsh knight, famous 1 
for skill in tilting, and for the beauty of his I 
person, parading the palace, arrayed in a new ; 
mantle, bearing for device an embroidered 1 
falcon, with this rhyme, — 

" I bear a falcon, fairest of flight, 
Whoso pinches at her, his death is dight* 
In graith."t 

The Scottish Knight, being a wag, appeared 
next day in a dress exactly similar to that of 
Courtenay, but bearing a magpie instead of the 
falcon, with a motto ingeniously contrived to 
rhyme to the vaunting inscription of Sir 
Piers: — 
^ I bear a pie picking at a piece, 

Whoso picks at her, 1 shall pick at hisnese.J 
in faith." 

Tliis affront could only be expiated by a joust 
with sharp lances. In the course, Dalzell left 
his helmet unlaced, so that it gave way at the 
touch of his antagonist's lance, and he thus 
avoided the shock of the encounter. This 
happened twice : in the third encounter the 
handsome Courtenay lost two of his front teeth. 
As the Englishman complained bitterly of Dal- 
zell's fraud in not fastening his helmet, the 
Scottishman agreed to run six courses more, 
each champion staking in the hand of the King 
two hundred pounds, to be forfeited, if, on 
entering the list, any unequal advantage should 
be detected. This being agreed to, the wily 
Scot demanded that Sir Piers, in addition to the 
loss of his teeth, should consent to the extinc- 
tion of one of his eyes, he himself having lost 
an eye. in the fight of'Otterburn. As Courtenay 
demurred to this equalization of optical powers, 
Dalzell demanded the forfeit ; which, after 
miich altercation, the King appointed to be 
paid to hiin, saying, he surpassed the English 
both in wit and valor. This must appear to 
the reader a singular specimen of the humor of 
that time. I suspect the Jockey Club would 
have given a different decision from Henry IV. 



* Pre|>ared. t Armor. % Nose. 



NOTH 9. 

They haWd Lord Marmion : 
They haii'd him Lord 0/ Fontenaye^ 
0/ Lrdterivnrd, and Scriveibaye, 

0/ 'J'atmvorth tozver and town. — P. 4^ 

Lord Marmion, the principal character of the 
present romance, is entirely a fictitious person- 
age. In earlier times, indeed, the family of 
Marmion, Lords of Fontenaye, in Normandy, 
was highly distinguished. Robert de Marmion. 
Lord of Fontenaye, a distinguished follower 01: 
the Conqueror, obtained a grant of the castle 
and town of Tamworth, and also of the manor 
of Scrivelby, in Lincolnshire. One or both of 
these noble possessions was held by the honor- 
able service of being the Royal Champion, as 
the ancestors of Marmion had formerly been to 
the Dukes of Normandy. But alter the castle 
and demesne of Tamworth had passed through 
four successive barons from Robert, the family 
became extinct in the person of Philip de 
Marmion, who died in 20th Edwaid I. without 
issue male. He was succeeded in his castle of 
Tamworth by Alexander de Freville, who 
married Mazera, his grand-daughter. Baldwin 
de Freville, Alexander's descendant, in the 
reign of Richard II., by the supposed tenure cf 
his castle at Taniwortli, claimed the office of 
Royal Champion, and to do the service apper- 
taining ; namely, on the day of coronation, to 
ride, completely armed, upon a barbed horse, 
into Westminster Hall, and there to challenge 
the combat against any who would gainsay the 
King's title. But this office was adjudged to 
Sir John Dymoke, to whom the manor of 
Scrivelby had descended by another of the co- 
heiresses of Robert de Marmion ; and it re- 
mains in that family, whose representative is 
Herditary Champion of England at the present 
day. The family and possessions of Freville 
have merged in the Earls of Ferrars. I have 
not, therefore, created a new family, but only 
revived the titles of an old one in an imaginary 
personage. 

It was one of the Marmion family, who, in 
the reign of Edward II., performed that chival- 
rous feat before the very castle of Norham, 
which Bishop Percy has woven into his beauti- 
ful ballad, " The Hermit of Warkworth."— The 
story is thus told by Leland •— 

" The Scottes cam yn to the marches of Eng- 
land, and destroyed the castles of Werk and 
Herbotel, and overran much cf Northumber- 
land marches. 

" At this tyme, Thomas Gray and his friendes 
defended Norham from the Scottes. 

" It were a wonderful processe to declare,what 
mischefes cam by hungre and asseges by the 
space of xi years in Northumberland ; for the 
Scottes became so proude, after they had got 
Berwick, that they nothing esteemed the Eng- 
lishmen. 

" About this tynie there was a great feste 
made yn Lincolnshir, to wb:ch came many 



'^OS 



APPENDIX, 



gentlemen and ladies ; and amonge them one 
lady brought a heaulme for a man of were, 
with a very riche creste of gold, to William 
Marmion, knight, with a letter of commande- 
ment of her lady, that he should go into the 
daungerest place in England, and ther to let tliue 
heaulme be seene and known as famous. So 
he went to Norham ; whither, within 4 days of 
cummmg, cam Philip Moubray, guardian of 
Berwicke, having yn his bande 40 men of 
amies, the very flour of men of the Scottish 
inarches. 

" Thomas Gray, capitayne of Norham, seynge 
tills, brought his garison afore the barriers of 
the castel, behind whom cam William, richly 
arrayed, as al glittering in gold, and wearing 
the heaulme, his lady's present. 

"Then said Thomas Gray to Marmion, ' Sir 
Knight, ye be cum hither to fame your helmet : 
mount upon yowr horse, and ride lyke a valiant 1 
man to yowr foes even here at hand, . d 1 for- 
sake God if I rescue not thy body deade or 
alyve, or I myself wyl dye for it.' 1 

" Whereupon he toTce his cursere, and rode 
among the throng of enemyes ; the which layed 
sore stripes on him, and pulled him at the last 
out of his sadel to the grounde. 

" Then Thomas Gray, with al the hole gar- 
rison, lette prick yn among the Scottes, and so ! 
■wondid them and their horses, that they were | 
overthrowan ; and Marmion, sore beten, was 
horsid agayn, and, with Gray, persewed the 
Scottes yn chase. There were taken fifty horse 
of price ; and the women of Norham brought 
them to the foote men to follow the chase." 

Note 10. 

Sir Hugh the Heron bold. 
Baron of Twisel, and of Ford, 
And Captain of the Hold. — ^. 50. 

Were accuracy of any consequence in a fic- 
titious narrative, this castellan's name ought to 
have been William: for William Heron of Ford 
was husband to the famous Lady Ford, whose 
siren charms are said to liave cost our James 
IV. so dear. Moreover, the said William Heron 
was, at the time supposed, a prisoner in Scot- 
iand, being surrendered by Henry VIII., on ac- 
count of his share in the slaughter of Sir Robert 
Ker of Cessford. His wife, represented in the 
text as residing at the Court of Scotland, was, 
jr. fnct, living in her own Castle at Ford. — See 
Sir Richard Heron's curious Geneaology of 
ike Heron Family. 

Note 11. 
James back'' d the cause of that mock prince^ 
IVarbeck, that Fieniish counterfeit^ 
IVho on the gibbet paid the cheat. 
Then did I march Tuith Surreys power. 
What time we razed old Ayton tower. — P. 51. 
The story of Perkm V/arbeck, or Richard, 
Duke of York, is well known. In 1496 he was 
received honorably in Seotland ; and James 



IV., afte? conferring upon him in marriage his 
own relation, the Lady Catherine Gordon,mad6 
war on England in behalf of his pretensions. 
To retaliate an invasion of England, Surrey 
advanced into Berwickshire at the head of coiv 
siderable forces, but retreated, after taking the 
inconsiderable fortress of Ayton. 

Note 12. 

/ trow^ 

Norham can find you guides enow ; 
For here be some have pricked as far^ 
On Scottish ground, as to Dufibar ; 
Have drufik the monks of St. Bothan's ate^ 
A nd driven the beeves of Lauderdale ; 
Harried the wives of Greenlaw' s goods, 
A7td given them light to set their hoods. — 

P. SI. 
The garrisons of the English castles of Wark, 
Norham, and Berwick, were, as may be easily 
supposed, very tronbJesome neighbors to Scot- 
land. Sir Richard Maitland of Ledington 
\yrote a poem, called "The Blind Baron's Com- 
fort ; " when his barony of Blythe in Lauder- 
dale was harriedhy Rowland Foster, the Eng- 
glish captain of Wark, withhis company, to the 
number of 300 men. They spoiled the poetical 
knight of 5000 sheep, 200 nolt, 30 horses and 
mares , the whole furniture of his house of 
Blythe, worth 100 pounds Scots (8/. 6j 8rf.,)and 
everything else that was portable 

Note 13 

The priest qf Shoreswood—fu cmdd rein 
The wildest war-horse in your train. — P.51. 
This churchman seems to have been akin to 
Welsh, the vicar of St. Thomas of Exeter, a 
leader among the Cornish insurgents in 1549. 
" This man,'* says Holinshed, "had many good 
things in him. He was of no great stature, but 
well set, and mightilie compact. He was a very 
good wrestler ; shot well, both in the longbow 
and also in the crossbow ; he handled his hand- 
gun and peece very well ; he was a very good 
woodman, and a liardie, and such a one as would 
not give his head for the polling, or his beard for 
the washing. He was a companion in any exer- 
cise of activitie, and of a courteous and gentle 
behaviour. He descended of a good honest pa- 
rentage, being borne at Peneverinin Cornwall ; 
and yet, 'n this rebellion, an arch-captain and a 
principal doer." — Vol. iv. p. 958, 4to edition 
This model of clerical talents had the misfortUF.O 
to be hanged upon the steeple oi bis own church • 

Note 14. 

that Grot where Olives nod. 

Where, darling of each heart and eye. 
From all the yo7ith of Sicily 

Saint Rosalie retired to God. — P. 52. 
" Santa Rosalia was of Palermo, and bom of 
a very noble family, and when very young ab- 
horred so much the vanities of this world, and 
avoided the ionvei-se of mankind, resolving t» 



MARMIOM. 



599 



dedicate herself wholly to God Almighty, that 
she, by Divine inspiration, forsook her father's 
house, and never was more heard of till her 
body was founi in that cleft of a rock, on that 
almost inaccessible mountahi, where now the 
chapel 15 built ; and they affirm she was carried 
up there by the hands of angels ; for that place 
was not formerly so accessible (as now it is) in 
ihe days of the Saint : and even now it is a very 
bad, and steepy, and breakneck way. In this 
frightful place, this holy v/oman lived a great 
many years, feeding only on what she found 
growing on that barren mountain, and creepmg 
into a narrow and dreadful cleft in a rock, 
which was always dropping wet, and was her 
place of retirement as well as prayer ; having 
worn out even the rock with her knees in a cer- 
tain place, which is now opened on purpose to 
show it to those who come here. This chapel is 
very richly adorn'd ; and on the spot where the 
Saint's dead body was discovered wbiv.h is just 
beneath the hole in the r ck, w ich is optned 
on purpose, as I said, there is a v^ry fine statue 
of marble representing her in a lying posture, 
railed in all about with fine iron and brass work ; 
and the altar, on which they say mass, is built 
just over it." — Voyage to Sicily and Malta, by 
S»' John Dryden (son to the poet), p. 107. 

NoTB 15, 

Friar John 

Himself still sleeps before his beads 

Have marked te7i aves, atid two creeds. — 

P. 52. 

Friar John understood the soporific virtue of 
his beads and breviary as well as his name- 
sake in Rabelais. " But Gargantua could not 
sleep by any means, on which side soever he 
turned himself, whereupon the monk said to 
him, ' 1 never sleep soundly but when I am at 
sermon or prayers. Let us therefore begin, 
you and I, the seven penitential psalms, to try 
whether you shall not quickly fall asleep.' The 
conceit pleased Gargantua very well ; and be- 
ginning the first of these psalms, as soon as they 
came \.o Beati quorum, they fell asleep, both 
the one and the other." 

Note 16. 
The su7nmoft^d Palmer came in place. — P. 52. 
A Palmer, opposed to a Pilgrim, was one 
who made it his sole business to visit different 
holy shrines ; travelling incessantly, and sub- 
sisting by charity : whereas the Pilgrim retired 
to his usual home and occupations, when he 
had paid his devotions at the particular spot 
which was the object of his pilgrimage. The 
Palmers seem to have been X'n&Questionariioi 
the ancient Scottish canons 1242 and 1296. 

Note 17. 

To fair St. A ndreivs bound, 
Within the ocean-cave to pray. 



Where good Saint Rule his holy lay^ 

From jnidnight to the dazvn of day. 

Sung to the billows' sound. — P. 53. 

St. Regulus {Scottice, St. Rule), a monk d 
Patras, in Achaia, warned by a vision, is said, 
A. D. 370, to have sailed westward, until he 
landed at St. Andrews in Scotland, where he 
founded a chapel and tower. The latter is still 
standing, and, though we may doubt the pre- 
cise date of Its foundation, is certainly one of 
the most ancient edifices m Scotland. A cave, \ 
nearly fronting the ruinous castle of the Arch- * 
bishops of St. Andrews, bears the name of this 
religious person. It is difficult of access ; and 
the rock in which it is hewn is washed by the 
Gerrnan Ocean. It is nearly round, about ten 
feet in diameter, and the same in height. On 
one side is a sort of stone altar ; on the other 
an aperture into an inner den, where the miser- 
able ascetic who inhabited this dwelling prob- 
ably slept. At full tide, egress and regress 
are hardly practicable. As Regulus first colo- 
nized the metropolitan see of Scotland, and con- 
verted the inhabitants in the vicinity, he has 
some reason to complain, that the ancient name 
of Killrule {Cella Regnli) should have been 
superseded even in favor of the tutelar saint 
of Scotland, The reason of the change was, 
that St. Rule is said to have brought to Scot- 
land the relics of St. Andrew. 

Note 18. 

" Saint Fillan^s blessed well. 

Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel^ 

And the crazed brain restore. — P. 53. 
St. Fillan was a Scottish saint of some repu- 
tation. Although Popery is, with us, matter of 
abomination, yet the common people still retain 
some of the superstitions connected with it. 
There are in Perthshire several wells and springs 
dedicated to St. Fillan, which are still places of 
pilgrimage and offerings, even among the Prot- 
estants. They are held powerful in cases of 
madness ; and, in some of very late occurrence, 
lunatics have been left all night bound to the 
holy stone, in confidence that the saint would 
cure and unloose them before morning. 

Note 19. 
The scenes are desert now, and bare. 
Where Jiaur ish' d once a forest fair.— P. 53. 
EttncK Forest, now a range of mountainous 
sheep-walks, was anciently leserved for the 
pleasure of the royal chase. Since it was dis« 
parked, the wood has been, by degrees, al* 
most totally destroyed, although, wherever 
protected from the sheep, copses soon anse 
without any planting. When the King hunted 
there, he often summoned the array of the 
country to meet and assist his sport. Thus, in 
1528, James V. made proclamation to all lords, 
barons, gentlemen, landwardmen, and free- 
holders, that they should compear at Edin> 



f)00 



APPENDIX. 



burgh, with a month's victuals, to pass with the 
king where he pleased, to danton the thieves 
of Tiviotdale, Annandale, Liddisdale, and other 
parts of that country , and also warned ail gen- 
tlemen that had good dogs to bring them, that 
he might hunt in the said country as he pleased : 
The whilk the Earl of Argyle, the Earl of 
Huntley, the Eaii oi Athole, and so all the rest 
of the gentlemen of the Highland, did, and 
brought their hounds with them in like manner, 
to hunt with the King, as he pleased. 

"The second day of June the King past out 
of Edinburgh to the hunting, with many of the 
nobles and gentlemen of Scotland with him, to 
the number of twelve thousand men \ and then 
past to Meggitland, and hounded and hawked 
all the country and bounds ; that is to say, 
Cramniat, Pappertlaw, St. Maryiaws, Carlav- 
rick. Chapel, Ewindoores, and Longhope. I 
heard say, he slew, in these bounds, eighteen 
score of harts."* 

These huntings had, of course, a military 
character, and attendance ' upon them was a 
part of the duty of a vassal. The act for abol- 
ishing ward or military tenures in Scotland, 
enumerates the services of hunting, hosting, 
■watching and warding, as those which were in 
future to be illegal. 

Taylor, the water-poet, has given an account 
of the mode in which these huntings were con- 
ducted in the Highlands of Scotland, in the 
seventeenth century, having been present at 
Braemar upon such an occasion : — 

" There did I find the truly noble and right 
honourable lords, John Erskine, Earl of Mar ; 
James Stewart, Earl of Murray ; George Gor- 
don, Earl of Engye, son and heir to the Mar- 
quis of Huntley ; James Erskine, Earl of 
Buchan ; and John, Lord Erskine, son and 
heir to the Earl of Mar, and their Countesses, 
with my much honoured, and my last assured 
and approved friend. Sir William Murray, 
knight of Abercarney, and hundreds of others, 
knights, esquires, and their followers ; all and 
every man in general, in one habit, as if Ly- 
curgus had been there, and made laws of 
equality ; for once in the year, which is the 
•whole month of August, and sometimes part of 
September, manj' of the nobility and gentry of 
the kingdom (for their pleasure) do come into 
these Highland countries to hunt ; where they 
do conform themselves to the habit of the 
Highlandmen, who, for the most part, speak 
nothing but Irish ; and, in former time, were 
those people which were called the Redshanks. 
Their habit is — shoes, with but one sole a-piece; 
stockings (which they call short hose), made of 
a warm stuff of divers colours, which they call 
tartan ; as for breeches, many of them, nor 
their forefathers, never wore any, but a jerkin of 
the same stuff that their hose is of; their gar- 
ters being bands or wreaths of hay or straw ; 
witii a plaid about their shoulders ; which is a 



* Pitscottib's History of Scotland, folio 
•ditioDf p. 143. 



mantle of divers colours, much finer and lighter 
stuff than their hose ; with blue flat caps on 
j their heads ; a handkerchief, knit with two 
i knots, about their necks ; and thus are they at- 
tired. Now their weapons are — long bowes 
j and forked arrows, swords, and targets, harque- 
busses, muskets, durks, and Lochaber axes. 
With these arms I found many of them armed 
for the hunting. As for their attire, any man, 
of what degree soever, that comes amongst 
them, must not disdain to wear it ; for, if they 
do, then they will disdain to hunt, or willingly 
to bring in their dogs ; but if men De kind unto 
them, and be in their habit, then are they con* 
' quered with kindness, and the sport will be 
plentiful. This was the reason that 1 found so 
many noblemen and gentlemen in those shapssi 
i But to proceed to the hunting : — 

" My good Lord of Mar having put me into 
that shape, I rode with him from his house, 
where I saw the ruins of an old castle, calleo 
the Castle of Kindroghit. 1 1 was built by King 
Malcolm Canmore (for a luir.ting-house), who 
reigned in Scotland, when Edward the Con' 
fessor, Harold, and Norman Wiiliam, reigned 
in England. I speak of it, because it was tha 
last house I saw in those parts ; for I was th4 
space of twelve days after, before I saw eithei 
house, corn-field, or habitation for any creatura 
but deer, wild horses, wolves, and such lika 
creatures, — which made me doubt that I should 
never have seen a house again. 

" Thus, the first day, we travelled eight 

miles, where there were small cottages built 

on purpose to lodge m, which they call Lon- 

quhards. I thank my good Lord Erskine, he 

commanded that I should always be lodged in 

his lodging : the kitchen being always on the 

! side of a bank : many kettles and pots boiling, 

j and many spits turning and winding, with great 

I variety of cheer, — as venison baked ; sodden, 

I rost, and stewed beef ; mutton, goats, kid, 

I hares, fresh salmon, pigeons, hens, capons, 

i chickens, partridges, muir-coots, heath-cocks, 

! caperkelhes, and termagants ; good ale, sacke, 

■ white and claret, tent (or allegant), with most 

potent aquavitae. 
I " All these, and more than these, we had 
j continually in superfluous abundance, caught 
by falconers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by 
my lord's tenants and purveyors to victual our 
camp, which consisteth of fourteen or fifteen 
hundred men and horses. The manner of the 
hunting is this: Five or six hundred men do 
rise early in the morning, and they do dispersa 
themselves divers ways, and seven, eight, or 
ten miles compass, they do bring, or chase 111, 
the deer in many heids, (two, three, or four 
hundred in a herd,) to such or such a place, as 
the noblemen shall appoint them ; then, when 
day is come, the lords and gentlemen of their 
companies do ride or go to the said places, 
sometimes wading up to the middles, through 
bums and rivers ; and then, they being comQ 
to the place, do he down on the grounc' \U 



( 



MARLIION 



6oi 



those foresaid scouts, which are called the 
Tinkhell, do bring down the deer ; but, as the 
proverb says of the bad cook, so these tnikhell 
men do lick their own fingers ; for, besides 
their bows and arrows, which they carry with 
them, we can hear, now and then, a harquebuss 
or a musket go oif, wliich they do seldom dis- 
charge in vain. Then, after we had staid 
there three hours or thereabouts, we might 
perceive the deer appear on the hills round 
about us (their heads making a show like a 
wood), which, being followed close by the tink- 
hell, are chased down into the valley where we 
lay ; then all the valley, on each side, being 
way-laid with a hundred couple of strong Irish 
greyhounds, they are all let loose, as occasion 
serves, upon the herd of deer, that with dogs, 
guns, arrows, durks, and daggers, in the space 
of two hours, fourscore fat deer were slain ; 
which after are disposed of some one way, and 
some another, twenty and thirty miles, and 
more than enough left for us, to make merry 
withall, at our rendezvous." 

Note 20. 

By lone Saint Mary^ s silent lake. — P. ^5. 

This beautiful sheet of water forms the reser- 
voir from which the Yarrow takes its course. It 
is connected with a smaller lake, called the 
Loch of the Lowes, and surrounded by moun- 
tains. In the winter, it is still frequented by 
flights of wild swans ; hence my friend Mr. 
Wordsworth's lines : — 

" The swan on sweet St. Mary's Lake 
Floats double, swan and shadow." 

Near the lower extremity of the lake, are 
the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birth-place of 
Mary Scott, daughter of Philip Scott, of Dry- 
hope, and famous by the traditional name of 
the Flower of Yarrow. She was married to 
Walter Scott of Harden, no less renowned for 
his depredations, than his bride for her beauty. 
Her romantic appellation was in later daysj 
with equal justice, conferred on Miss Mary 
Lilias Scott, the last of the elder branch of the 
Harden family. The author well remembers 
the talent and spirit of the latter Flower of 
Yarrow, though age had then injured the 
charms which procured her the name. The 
words usually sung to the air of "Tweedside/' 
beginning, " What beauties does Flora dis- 
close," were composed in her honor. 

Note 21. 

in feudal strife, a foe, 

Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low. — P. 55. 
The chapel of St. Mary of the Lowes {de 
lacubus) was situated on the eastern side of the 
lake, to which it gives name. It was injured 
by the clan of Scott, m a feud with the Crans- 
touns ; but continued to be a place of worship 
d»nng the seventeenth century. The vestiges 



of the building can now scarcely be traced ; but 
the burial-ground is still used as a cemetery. A 
funeral, in a spot so very retired, has an un- 
commonly striking effect. The vestiges of the 
chaplain's house are yet visible. Being in at 
high situation, it commanded a full view of fhe 
lake; with the opposite mountain of Bourhope, 
belonging, with the lake itself, to Lord Napier. 
On. the left hand is the tower of Dryhope, 
mentioned in a preceding note. 

j Note 22. 

i The Wizard^ s grave ; 

That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust 
From co-mpany of holy dust. — P. 55. 

At one corner of the burial-ground of the 
demolished chapel, but without its precincts, 

I is a small inound, called Binrani's Corse, 
where tradition deposits the remains of a 

■ necromantic priest, the former tenant of the 
chaplainry. 

Note 23. 
Some ruder and more savage scene, 

I Like that which frowns round dark Loch- 

i Skene. — P. 56. 

! Loch-skene is a mountain lake, of consider- 
able size, at the head of the Moffat-water. 
The character of the scenery is uncommonly 
savage ; and the earn, or Scottish eagle, has, 
for many ages, built its nest yearly upon an 
islet in the lake. Loch-skene discharges itself 
into a brook, which, after a short and precipi- 
tate course, falls from a cataract of immense 
height, and gloomy grandeur, called from its 
appearance, the *' Gray Mare's Tail." The 

; " Giant's Grave," afterwards mentioned, is a 

i sort of trench, which bears that name, a little 
way from the foot of the cataract. It has the 

I appearance of a battery, designed to command 
the pass. 

Note 24. 
— — St. Cuthberfs Holy Isle.—V. 56. 
Lindisfame, an isle on the coast of North- 
umberland, was called Holy Island, from the 
sanctity of its ancient monastery, and from its 
having been the episcopal seat of the see of 
Durham during the early ages of British 
Christianity. A succession of holy men held 
that office : but their merits were swallowed 
up in the superior fame of St. Cuthbert, who 
was sixth Bishop of Durham, and who be- 
stowed the name of his "patrimony" upon 
the extensive property of the see. The ruins 
of the monastery upon Holy Island betoken 
great antiquity. The arches are, in general, 
strictly Saxon, and the pillars which support 
them, short, strong, and massy. In some 
places, hovrever, there are pointed windows, 
which indicate that the building has been re- 
paired at a period long subsequent to the 
original foundation. The exterior ornaments 
of the building, bemg of a light sandy stonej 
have been wasted, as described in the text. 



602 



APPENDIX. 



Lindisfarne » not properly at island, but 
rather, as the venerable BeHe has termed it, 
a semi-isle ; for, although su^Tounded by the 
sea at lull tide, the ebb leaves the sands dry 
between it and the opposite coast of Northum- 
berland, from which it is about three miles 
distant. 

Note 25. 

in their ctfuvent ceil, 

A Saxon priftcess once did dwell. 
The lovely Edeljled.—F. 58. 

She was the daughter of King Oswy, who, 
in gratitude to Heaven for the great victory 
■which he won in 655, against Penda, the Pagan 
King of Mercia, dedicated Edelfleda, then but 
a ear old, to the service of God, in the mon- 
astery of Whitby, of which St. Hilda was then 
abbess. She afterwards adorned the place of 
her education with great magnificence. 

Note 26. 

'—— 0/ thousand snakes, each one 
Was changed into a coil 0/ stone ^ 

IVhen holy Hilda prayed ; 
They told, how sea-fowls' piftions/ail, 
A s over Whitby'' s towers they sail,— P 59. 

These two miracles are much insisted upon 
by all ancient writers who have occasion to 
mention either Whitby or St. Hilda. The relics 
of the snakes which infested the precincts of 
the convent, and were, at the abbess's prayer, 
not only beheaded, but petrified, are still found 
about the rocks, and are termed by Protestant 
fossihsts. A tnmonitcE. 

The other miracle is thusmei.cioned by Cam- 
den : " It is also ascribed to the power of her 
sanctity, that these wild geese, which, in the 
winter, fly in great flocks to the lakes and 
rivers unfrozen in the southern parts, to the 
great amazement of every one, fall down sud- 
denly upon the ground, when tiiey are in their 
flight over certain neighboring fields here- 
bouts ; a relation I should not have made, if I 
had not received it from several credible men. 
But those who are less inclined to heed super- 
stition attribute it to some occult quality in the 
ground, and to somewhat of antipathy between 
it and the geese, such as they say is betwixt 
wolves and scylla roots : For that such hidden 
tendencies and aversions, as we call sympathies 
and antipathies, are implanted in many things 
by provident Nature, for the preservation of 
them, is a thing so evident thct everybody 
grants it." Mr. Charlton, in his History of 
Whitby, points out the true origin of the fable, 
from the number of sea-gulls that, when flying 
from a storm, often alight near Whitby ; and 
from the woodcocks, and other birds of passage, 
who do the same upon their arrival on shore, 
^ter a long flight. 



NoTB 27. 
His iody'i resting-place, of old. 
How oft their Patron changed, they told,'— 

P. 59. 

St. Cuthbert was, in th choice of his sepul- 
chre, one of the most mutable and unreasonable 
saints in the Calendar. He died a.d. 6S8, m 
a hermitage upon the Fame Islands, having 
resigned the bishopric of Lindisfarne, or Holy 
Island, about two years before. His body was 
brought to Lindisfarne, where it remained until 
a descent of the Danes, about 793, when the 
monastery was nearly destroyed. The monks 
fled to Scotland with what they deemed their 
chief treasure, the relics of St. Cuthbert The 
Saint was, however, a most capricious fellow- 
I traveller, which was the more intolerable, as, 
like Smbad's Old Man of the Sea, he journeyed 
upon the shoulders of his companions. They 
paraded him through Scotland for several 
years, and came as far west as Whithern, in Gal- 
loway, whence they attempted to sail for Ire- 
land, but were driven back by tempests. He 
at length made a halt at Norham •, from thence 
he went to Melrose, where he remained sta- 
tionary for a short time, and then caused him- 
self to be launched upon the Tweed in a stone 
coffin, winch landed him ai Tilmouth, in 
Northumberland. 

The resting-place of the remains of this 
Saint IS not now matter of uncertainty So re- 
cently as 17th May, 1827, '139 years after his 
death, their discovery and disinterment were 
effected. Under a blue stone in the middle o€ 
the shrine of St- Cuthbert, at the eastern ex- 
tremity of the choir of Durham Cathedral, there 
was then found a walled grave, containing the 
coffins of the Saint The first, or outer one, 
was ascertained to be that of 1541, thesecondoi 
1041 ; the th:"<l,orinnerone, answering inevery 
particular to tV. description of that of 698, was 
found to contain, not indeed, as had been 
averred then, and even until 1539, the incorrup- 
tible body but the entire skeleton of the Saint J 
the bottom of the grave being perfectly dry, 
free from offensive smell, and without ths 
slightest symptom that a human body had ever 
undergone decomposition within its walls. The 
skeleton was found swathed m five silk robes 
of emblematic embroidery the ornamental 
parts laid with gold leaf, and these agaia 
covered with a robe of linen Beside the skele 
ton were also deposited several gold and silver 
insignia, and other relics of the Saint. 

I Speaking of the burial of Cuthbert, Mr 
Hartshorne says, " Aldhune was at that time 
bishop ot the, p.-eviously for along period, wan- 
dering See of Lindisfarne. But we now hear 
no more of that ancient name aa the seat of 
Episcopacy A cathedra! church, such as it 
was * * • was speedily erected upon the 
hill ot Durham. This church was consecrated, 
with much magnificence and solemnity, in the 
year <)<)<).'*— Historp of Northumberlend, p. 
327-1 



MAR M ION. 



60 



Note 28. 

Even Scotland'' s dau7itless king tt-ndheir, cSr't:., 
JBefore his standard ^ed. — P. i;9. 

Everyone has heard, that when David I., 

with his son Henry, invaded Northumberland 
in 1136, the English host marched against them 
under the holy banner of St. Cuthbert ; to the 
efficacy of which was imputed the great victory 
which they obtamed in the bloody battle of 
Northallerton, or Cutonmoor. The conquerors 
ivere at least as much indebted to the jealousy 
end intractability of the different tribes who 
composed David s army ; among vvhoin, as men- 
tioned in the text, were the Galvvegians, the 
Britons of Strath-Clyde, the men of Teviotdale 
and Lothian, with many Norman and German 
warriors, who asserted the cause of ti)e Empress 
Maud. See Chalmers' Caledonia, vol. 1. p. 
b22 ; a most laborious, curious, and interesting 
publication, from which considerable defects of 
style and manner ought not to turn aside the 
Scottish antiquary. 

Note 29. 

' Twas he, to vindicate his reign. 
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
A nd turn d the Conqueror back again. — 

P.S9- 
Cuthbert, we have seen, had no great reason 
to spare the Danes, when opportunity offered. 
Accordingly, I find, in Simeon of Durham, that 
the Saint appeared in a vision to Alfred, when 
lurking in the marshes of Glastonbury, and 
promised him assistance and victory over his 
heathen enemies ; a consolation which, as was 
reasonable, Alfred, after the victory of Ashen- 
down, rewarded by a royal offering at the shrine 
of the Saint. As to William the Conqueror, 
the terror spread before his army, when he 
marched to punish the revolt of the Northum- 
brians in 1096, had forced the monks to fly once 
more to Holy Island with the body of the Saint. 
It was, however, replaced before William left 
the north ; and, to balance accounts, the Con- 
queror having intimated an indiscreet curiosity 
to viev/ the Saint's body, he was, while in the 
act of commanding the shrine to be opened, 
seized with heat and sickness, accompanied 
with such a panic terror, that, notwithstanding 
there was a sumptuous dinner prepared for him, 
he fled without ^eating a morsel, (which the 
iionkish historian seems to have thought no 
small part both of tlie miracle and the penance,) 
and never drew his bridle till he got to the river 
Tees. 

Note 30. 

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to fratne 
The sea'born beads that bear his natne.— 

PS9- 

Although we do not learn that Cuthbert was, 

during his life, such an artificer as Dunstan, his 

brother io sanctity, yet, since his death, he has 



acquired the reputation of forging those Ett- 
iroclii which are found among the rocks of 
Ho;y Island, and pass there by the iiame cf St. 
Cuthbert's Beads. While at this tasic, he is 
supposed to sit during the night upon a certain 
rock, and use another as his anvil. This story 
was perhaps, credited m former days J at least 
the Saint's legend contains somo not more 
probable. 

Note 31. 
Old Colwul/.—V. 59. 
Ceowulf, or Colwulf, King of Northumber 
land, flourished in the eighth century. He was 
a man of some learning ; for the venerable Bede 
dedicates to him his " Ecclesiastical History." 
He abdicated the^throne about 73><, and retired 
to Holy Island, where he flied in the odor of 
sanctity Saint as Colwulf was, however, I 
fear the foundation of the penance vault does 
not correspond with his character ; for it is re- 
corded among his memorabilia, that, finding 
the air of tiie island raw and cold, he indulged 
the monks, whose rule had hitherto confined 
them tQ milk or water, with the comfortable 
privilege of using wine or ale. If any rigid an- 
tiquary insists on this objection, he is welcome 
to suppose the penance-vault was intended, by 
the founder, for the more genial purposes of a 
cellar 

Note 32. 
Tynevtottth's haughty Prioress. — P. 60. 
That there was an ancient priory at Tyne- 
mouth is certain. Its ruins are situated on a 
high rocky point ; and, doubtless, many a vow 
was made to the shrine by the distressed mari- 
ners who drove towards the iron-bound coast of 
Northumberland in stormy weather It was 
anciently a nunnery • for Virca, abbess of Tyne- 
mouth, presented St. Cufhbert (yet alive) with 
a rare winding-sheet, in emulation of a holy 
lady called Tuda, who had sent him a coffin: 
But, as in the case of Whitby, and of Holy 
Island, the introduction of nuns at Tynemouth 
in the reign of Henry VIII is an anachronism. 
The nunnery at Holy Island is altogether fic- 
titious. Indeed, St. Cuthbert was unlikely to, 
permit such an establishment ; for, notwith- 
standing his accepting the mortuary gifts above 
mentioned, and his carrying on a visiting ac- 
quaintance with the Abbess of Coldingham, he 
certainly hated the whole female sex j and, in 
revenge of a slippery trick played to him by an 
Irish princess, he, after death, inflicted severe 
penances on such as presumed to approach 
within a certain distance of his shrine. 

Note 33. 

On those the wall was to enclose. 

Alive within the tomb. — P. 61 . 

It is well known that the religious, who broke 

their vows cf chastity, were subjected to the 

same penalty as the Roman vestais in a Biroilu 



6o4 



APFE?W!X. 



case. A small niche, sufficient to enclose their 
bodies, was made in the massive wall of the 
convent ; a slender pittance of food and water 
•was deposited iu it, and the awful words, Vade 
IN Pace, were the signal for immurmg the 
criminal. It is not Ukely that, in later times, 
this pmiishment was often resorted to ; but 
among the ruins of the Abbey of Coldingham 
were some years ago discovered the remains of 
a female skeleton, which from the shape of the 
iiiclie and position of the figure seemed to be 
4hat of an immured nun. 

Note 34. 
The village inn. — P. 65. 
The accommodations of a Scottish hostelrie, 
or inn, in the i6th century, may be collected 
from Dunbar's admitable tale' of " The P'riars 
of Berwick." Simon Lawder, " the gay ostlier," 
seems to have lived very comfortably ; and his 
wife decorated her person with a scarlet kirtle, 
and a belt of silk and silver, and ringr ujion her 
fingers ; and feasted her paramour with rabbits, 
capons, partridges, and Bordeaux wine.. At 
jeast, if the Scottish inns were not good, it was 
rot for want of encouragement from the legis- 
lature ; who, so early as the reign of James I., 
rot only enacted that in all boroughs and fairs 
there be hostellaries, having stables and cham- 
bers, and provisions for man and horse, but by 
another statute ordained that no man, travelling 
<pn horse or foot, should presume to lodge any- 
•ijiere except in these hostellaries ; and that no 
.<>^_^rson, save innkeepers, should receive such 
iavf)vel]ers, under the penalty of forty shillings, 
^r exercising such hospitality. But, in spite of 
these provident enactments, the Scottish hos- 
tels are but indifferent, and strangers continue 
•O find reception m ths houses of individuals. 

Note 35. 
Tite death qfa dear friend.— '^ . 67. 

"itfiong other omens to which faithful credit 
U given among the Scotush peasantry, is what 
is called the '• doad-bell," explained by my 
friend James Hogg to be that tinkling in the 
ears which the country people regard as the 
secret intelligence of someiriend's decease. 

Note 36. 
The Goblin Hall.—'?. 6S. 
A vaulted hall under the ancient castle of 
Gifford or Yester, (for it bears either name in- 
differently,) the construction of which has from 
a very remote period been ascribed to magic. 
The statistical Account of the Parish of Garvald 
and Baro gives the following account of the 
present state of this castla and apartment :— 
'' Upon a peninsula formed by the water of 
Hopes on the east, and a large rivulet on 
the west, stands the ancient castle of Yester. 
Sir David Dalrvmple, in his Annals, relates, 
that ' Hugh Gifiord do Yester died in 1267 ; 
that in his castle there was a capacious cavern, 



formed by magical art, and called in the country 
Bo-Hall, I. e. Hobgoblhi Hall.' A staircase 
of twenty-four steps led down to this apart- 
ment, which is a large and spacious hall, with 
an arched roof , and though it had stood for so 
many centuries, and been exposed to the exter- 
nal air for a period of fifty or sixty years, it is 
still as firm and entire as if it had only stood a 
few years. From the floor of this hall, auotlier 
staircase of thirty-six steps leads down to a pit 
which hath a communication with Hopes-water. 
A great part ot the walls of this large and 
ancient castle are still standing. There is a tra= 
dition that the castle of Yester was the last 
fortification in this country, that surrendered 
to General Gray, sent into Scotland by Pro- 
tector Somerset." — Statistical Account, vol. 
xiii. I have only to add, that, in •.737, the 
Gobhn Hall was tenanted by the Marquis of 
Tweeddale's falconer, as I learn from a poem 
by Boyse, entitled'' Retirement," written upon 
visiting Yester It is now rendered macctfssi- 
ble by the fall of the stair- 

Note 37. 
There floated H acd' s banner trim 
Above Norivey an warriors gri^n. — P. 68. 
In 1263, Haco, King of Norway, came into 
the Frilh ot Clyde with a powerful armament, 
and made a descent at Largs, m Ayrshire. 
Here he was encountered and defeated, on the 
2d October, by Alexander III. Haco retreated 
to Orkney, where he died soon aftgr this dis- 
grace to his arms. There are still existing, near 
the place of battle, many barrows, some of 
which, having been opened, were found, as 
usual, to contain bones and urns. 

Note 38. 

Upon his breast a peniacle.—V' 69. 

'■ A pentacle is a piece of fine linen, fc'ded 
v/ith five corners, according to the five senses, 
and suitably inscribed with characters. Ihis 
the magician extends towards the spirits which 
he invokes, when they are stubborn and rebel- 
lious, and refuse to be conformable unto the 
ceremonies and rites of magic'"— See the Dis- 
courses, &c., m Reginald Scott's Discovery 0/ 
Witchcraft, ed. 1665, p. ^b. 

Note 39. 

A s horn upon that blessed night. 

When yaivnirig graves and dying groan 

Proclannd HelPs empire overthrown.— 

P. 6^. 

It is a popular article of faith that those wh-o 
are born on Christmas, or Good Friday, hav* 
the power of seeing spirits, and even of com- 
manding them. The Spaniards imputed the 
haggard and downcast looks of their Philip 11. 
to the disagreeable visions to which this privi- 
lege subjected liini. 



MARMION, 



605 



NOTB 40. 

Yet still the knightly sfiear and shield 
The Elfin warrior doth zvield 

Upon the brown hill" s breast. — P. 70. 
The following extract from the Essay upon 
the Fairy superstitions, in the " Minstrelsy of 
the Scottish Border," vol. ii., will showwhence 
many of the particulars of the combat between 
Alexander III. and the Goblin Kniglit are 
derived : — 

Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperial, ap. Script. 
T^r. Bruirjvic. (vol. i. p. 797), relates the follow- 
ing popular story concerning a fairy knight : 
" Oibert, a bold and powerful baron, visited a 
noble family in the vicinity of Wande'bury, in 
the bishopric of Ely. Among other stories 
related in the social circle of his friends, who, 
according to custom, amused each other by re- 
peating ancient tales and traditions, he was 
informed, that if any knight, unattended, en- 
tered an adjacent plain by moonlight, ai d chal- 
lenj-^id an adversary to appear, he would be im- 
Kiediately encountered by a spirit in the form 
of a kniglit. Osbart resolved ic make the ex- 
periment, and set out, attended by a single 
squire, whom he ordered to remain without the 
limits of the plain, which wa.. surrounded by an 
ancient entrenchment. On repeating the chal- 
lenge, he was inst:ir,t!y assai.ed by an adver- 
sary, whom he quickly unhorsed, and seized the 
reins of his steed. During this operation, his 
ghostly opponent sprung up, and darting his 
spear, like a javelin, at Osbert, wourided him 
in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with 
the horse, which he committed to the care of 
his servants. The horse was of a sable color, 
as well as his whole accoutrements, and appa- 
rently of great beauty and vigor. He remained 
with his keeper till cock-crowing, when, with 
eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned tiie ground, 
and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert 
perceived that he was wounded, and that one 
of his steel boots was full of blood." Gervase 
adds, that " as long as he lived, the scar of his 
wound opened afresh on the anniversary of the 
eve on which he encountered the spirit." Less 
fortunate v/as the gallant Bohemian knight, 
who, travelling by night with a single com- 
panion, *' came in sight of a fairy host, arrayed 
under displayed banners. Despising the re- 
monstrances of his friend, the knight pricked 
forward to break a lance with a champion, who 
sadvanced from the ranks apparently in defiance. 
His companion beheld the Bohemian over- 
thrown, horse and man, by his aerial adver- 
sary ; and returnmg to the spot next morning. . 
he found the mangled corpses of the knight i 
and s,X&qA." -Hierarchy 0/ Blessed Angels, 

P- 554; 

Besides these instances of Elfin chivalry 
above quoted, many others might be alleged in 
support cf employing fairy machinery in this 
manner. The forest of Glenmore, in theNorth 
Highlands, is believed to be haunted by a spirit 



called Lhatn-dearg^ in tho arrry of an 

warrior, having a bloody hand, from wl 



ancieni 
bloody hand, from which he 
takes his name. He nisists upon ■':hose with 
whom he meets doing battle with him and the 
clergyman who makes up an account of the dis- 
trict, extant in the Macfarlane MS. in the Ad- 
vocates' Library', gravely assures us, that, in liis 
time, Lhatn-dearg ion^hx with three brothers, 
whom he met in his walk, none of whom long 
survived the ghostly conflict. Barclay, in his 
" Euphormion," gives a singular account of an 
ofificer who had ventured, with his servant, 
rather to intrude upon a haunted house in a 
town in Flanders, than to put up with worse 
quarters elsewhere. After taking the usual 
precautions of providing fires, lights, and arms, 
they watched till midnight, when behold ! the 
severed arm of a man dropped from the ceiling; 
this was followed by the legs, the other arm, 
the trunk, and the head of the body, all sepa- 
rately. The members rolled together, united 
themselves in the presence of the astonished 
soldiers, and formed a gigantic warrior, who 
defied them both to conobat. The blows, al- 
though they penetrated the body and ampu- 
tated the limbs cf their strange antagonist, had, 
as the reader may easily believe, littie effect on 
an enemy who p<.ssessed such powers of self- 
union ; nor did his efforts make more effectual 
impression upon them. How the combat ter- 
minated I do not exactly remember, and have 
not the book by me ; but I think the spirit made 
to the intruders on his mansion the usual pro- 
posal that they should renounce their redemp- 
tion ; which being declined, he was obliged to 
retract. 

The northern champions of old were accus- 
tomed peculiarly to search for, and delight in, 
encounters with such military spectres. See a 
whole chapter on the subject, in Bartho- 
LINUS, De Cattsis contemptcE Mortis a Danis, 
P- 253 

Note 41. 

Close to the hut, no more his 07vn, 
Close to the aid he sought in vain. 
The morn may find the stiffen" d swain. — 
P. 72. 
_ I cannot help here mentioning, that, on the 
night in which these lines were written, sug- 
gested, as they were, by a sudden fall of snow, 
beginning after sunset, an unfortunate man 
perished exactly in the manner here described, 
and his body was next morning found close to 
his own house. The accident happened within 
five ir.iles of the farm of Ashestiel. 

Note 42. 

Forbes. — P. 72. 

Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Baronet ; un- 
equalled, perhajjs, in the degree of individual 
affection entertained for him by his friends, ns 
well as in the general respect and esteem of 
Scotland at large. His " Life of Beattie," 
whom he beirisnded and patronized in life, a' 



6o6 



APPENDIX. 



vFall as celebrated after his decease, was not 
long published before the benevolent and affec- 
tionate biographer was called to follow the sub- 
ject of his narrative. This melancholy event 
very shortly succeeded the marriage of the 
friend, to v/hom this introduction is addressed, 
with one of Sir William's daughters. 

Note 43. 
Friar Rtish.- Ir. 74, 
Alias ** Will o* the Wisp." This personage 
is a strolling demon, or esprit follet, who, once 
upon a ime, got admittance into a monastery 
as a scullion, and played the monks many 
pranks. He was also a sort cf Robin Good- 
feliow, and Jack o' Lanthorn. It is in allusion 
to this mischievous demon that Milton's clown 
speaks, 

" She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said, 
And he by Friar'' s lanthorn led." 
" The history of Friar Rush" is of extreme 
rarity, and, for some time, even the existence 
of such a book was doubted, although it is ex- 
pressly alluded to liy Reginald Scott, in liis 
'* Discovery of Witchcraft." I have perused a 
copy in the valuable library of my friend, jMr. 
Heber ; and I observe, from Mr, Beloe's 
"Anecdotes of Literature,'' that there is one in 
the excellent collection of the Marquis of 
Stafford. 

NoTK 44. 

Sir David Lindesay of the Mounit 
Lord Lio7i King-ai-arjns. — P. 75, 
The late elaborate edition of Sir David 
Lindesay 's Works, by Mr. George Chalmers, 
has probably introduced him to many of my 
readers. It is perhaps to be regretted, that the 
learned Editor had not bestowed more pains in 
elucidating his author, even although he should 
have omitted, or at least reserved, his disquisi- 
tions on the origin of the language used by the 
poet: But, with all its faults, his work is an 
acceptable present to Scottish antiquaries. Sir 
David Lindesay was well known for his early 
efforts in favor of the Reformed doctrines ; 
Sind, indeed, his play, coarse as it now seems, 
must have had a powerful effect upon the people 
of his age. I am uncertain if I abuse poetical 
licence, by introducing Sir David Lindesay in 
;he character of Lion-Herald, sixteen years 
before he obtained that office. At any rate, I 
am not the first who has been guilty of the 
inachronism; for the author of "Flodden Field" 
despatches Dallampitnt, which can mean no- 
body but Sir David de la Mont, to France, on 
the message of defiance from James IV. to 
Henry VIII. It was often an office imposed 
on the Lion King-at-arms, to receive foreign 
ambassadors; and Lindesay himself did this 
honor to Sir Raljih Sadler^ in 15.^9-40. In- 
deed, the oath of the Lion, m its first article, 
bears reference to his frequent employment 
upon royal messages '.nd embassies. 



I The office of heralds in feudal times, being 
held of the utmost importance, the inauguration 
of the Kings-at-arms, who presided over their 
colleges, was proportionally solemn. In fact, 
it was the mimicry of a royal coronation, except 
that the unction was made with wine instead of 
oil. In Scotland, a namesake and kinsman of 
Sir David Lindesay, inaugurated in 1592, " was 
crowned by Knig James with the ancient crowri 
of Scotland, which was used before the Scottish 
kings assumed a close crown ;" and, on occasion^ 
of the same solemnity, dined at the King's table, 
weanng tlie crown. It is probable that the 
coronation of his predecessor was not less 
i solemn. So sacred was the herald's office, that, 
j in 15 1 5, Lord Drummond was by Parliament 
declared guilty of reason, and his lands for- 
feited, because he had struck with his fist the 
Lion King-at-arms, when he reproved him for 
his follies. Nor was he restored, but at the 
Lion's earnest solicitation. 

Note 45. 
Crichtoun Castle. — P. 75. 
A large ruinous castle on the banks of the 
Tyne, about ten miles from Edinburgh. As 
indicated in the text, it was built at different 
times, and with a very differing regard to 
splendor and accommodation. Th.e oldest 
part of the building is a narrow keep, or tower, 
such as formed the mansion of a lesser Scottish 
baron; but so many additions have been mad-e 
to it, that there is now a large court-yard, sur- 
rounded by buildings of different ages. The 
eastern front of the court is raised above a 
portico, and decorated with entablatures, bear- 
mg anchors. All the stones of this front are 
cut into diamond facets, the angular projections 
of which have an uncommonly rich appearance. 
The inside of this part of the building appears 
to have contained a gallery of great length, and 
uncommon elegance. Access was given to it by 
a magnificent stair-case, now quite destroyed- 
The soffits are ornamented with twining cordage 
and rosettes ; and the whole seems to have been 
far more splendid than was usual in Scottish 
castles. The castle belonged originally to the 
Chancellor, Sir William Cnchton, and probably 
owed to him its first enlargement, as well as its 
biing taken by the Eari of Douglas, who im- 
jnited to Crichton's counsels the death of his 
predecessor, Earl William, beheaded m Edii.- 
burgh Castle, with his brother, in 1440. It is 
said to have been totally demolished on that 
occasion ; but the present state of the ruin 
shows the contrary. In 1483, it was garrisoned 
by Lord Cnchton, then its proprietor, against 
King James III., whose displeasure he had 
mcurred by seducing his sister Margaret, m re- 
venge, it is said, for the Monarch having dis- 
honored his bed. From the Crichton family 
the castle passed to that of the Hepburns, Earls 
of Bothwell ; and when the forfeitures of Stew- 
art, the last Earl of Bothwel. were divided, tlie 
barony and Castle of Ciichlon f^-.l to ihs share. 



MARMION 



607 



Df the Earl of Ruccleuch. They were after - 
tfp.rcis t!ie pr.jperty of the Pnngles of Clifton, 
qudaie now thatof Sir John Callander. Baronet 
It were to be v."shed the proprietor would take 
a little pains to pr.iservt theje soLndid . --mains 
of antiquity, which are at prestnt used a.- a io'a 
for sheep, and wintering cattle ; althouiih, per- 
haps, there are very few ruins in Scotland which 
display so well the style and beauty ft ancieri 
castle-architecture. The castle of Crichton has 
a dungeon vault, called the Massey Mole. The 
epithet, which is iiot uncommonly applied to the 
prisons of othei old castles in Scotland, is of 
Saracenic origin. It occurs twice in the " Epis- 
ioIcR Itinerarice''^ of Tollius, " Career siibtcr- 
ranens,sive, ut Maiiri appellant, "" T azmorra," 
p. 147 ; and again, '''■ Coguntnr o7unes Captivi 
sub 7iociein in ergasUila sit,hterra7tca^ quiS 
Turcie Alffezerani vocant Mazmorras," p. 
245. The same word applies to the dungeons 
of the ancient Moorish castles in Spain, and 
serves to show from what nation th.e Gothic 
style of castle-building was originally derived. 

Note 46. 

Earl Adatn Hepburn. — P. 76. 

He v.- IS th^ second Earl "of Bothwell, and fell 
in the field of F'lodden, where, according to an 
ancient English po-^t, he distinguished himself 
by a furious attempt Co retrieve the day ; — 
" Th.en on the Scottish part, right proui^. 
The Earl of Bothwell then'out brast, 
And stepping ibrth, with stomach good, 

Into the enemies' throng he tlirast ; 
And Bothivell! Bothwell! cried bold, 

To cause his souldlers to ensue, 
But there he caught a wellcome cold, 

The Engiishmen straight down him threw. 
Thus Haburn throurh his hardy heart 
His fatal fine in co .fnct found," &c. 

Flodden Fie?d, a Poem ; edited by 
H. Weber. Edin. i8o8. 

Adkm was grandfather to James, Earl of 
Bothwell, too well known in the history of 
Queen Mary. 

Note 47. 
For that a mczzen^ey froin Heaveny 
In vain to James had coutisel given. 
Against the English war. — P. 76. 

This story is told by Pitscottie with charac- 
teristic simplicity — The King, seeing that 
France could get no support of him for that 
time, made a proclamation, full hastilj', through 
all the realm of Scotland, both east and west, 
south and north, as t^■e^ in the isles as in the 
firm land, to all manner of men, between sixty 
and seventy years, that they should be ready, 
within fvent^ days, to pass with him, with 
forty days' victual, and to meet at the Burrow- 
muir of Edinburgh, and there to pass forward 
where he pleased. His proclamations were 
feastily obeyed, contrary the Council of Scot- 



land's will , but every man loved his prince so 
well that they would on no ways disooey him .* 
but every man caused make his proclamat'Ci;' 
so hastily, confoiin to the charge of the Kinj,'s 
oioclamation. 

" The King came to Lithgow, where he hap- 
pened to be for the time at the Council, very 
sad and dolorous, making his devotion to God, 
to send him good chance and fortune m h:s 
vijyage. 'n this meantime there came a man, 
cir.d in a blue gc^wn, in at the kirk door, and 
beited about him in a roll of linen cicth ; a pair 
ot brotikings on his feet, to the great of his le.'js ; 
wilhail other hose and clothes conform thereto ; 
but he had nothing on his head, but syde red 
yellow hair behind, and on his hafftts, which 
wan down to his shoulders ; but his forehead 
wns bald and bare. He seemed to be a man of 
tvyo-and-fifty years, with a great pike-2ta£f in 
his hand, and came first forward among the 
lords, crying and speiring for the King, saying, 
he desired to speak with him. While at the 
last, he caras where the priest was sitting in the 
desk at his prayers; but when he saw the King, 
he made him little reverence or salutation, biu 
leaned down gvoffling on the desk before him, 
and said to him in this manner, as after follows: 
— ' Sir King, my mother hath sent me to you, 
desiring you not to pass, at this time, whe-.e 
thou art purposed; for if thou does, thou wilt 
not fare well in thy journey, nor none that 
passeth with thee. Further, she bade thee inell 
with no woman, nor use their counsel, nor let 
them touch thy body, nor thou theirs; for, if 
thou do it, thou wilt be confounded and broiight 
to shame.' 

" By this man had spoken thir words unto the 
King's grace, the evening song was near done, 
and the King paused on thir words, studying to 
give him an answer: but, in the meantime, be- 
fore the King's eyes, and in the presence of all 
the lords that were about him for the time, this 
man vanished away, and could no ways be seen 
or comprehended, but vanished awayas he had 
been a blink of the sun, or a whip of ihe whirl- 
wind, and could no more be seen. I heard say, 
Sir I)a\'id Lindesay Lyon-herauld, and John 
Inglis the marshal, who were, at that time, 
young men, and special servants to the King's 
grace, were standing presently beside the King, 
who thought to have laid hands on this man, 
that (hey might have speired further tidings at 
him : But all for noiigiii ; they could not touch 
him; for he vanished away betwixt them, and 
was no more seen." 

Note 48. 
The wild Imckbells.—V. 76. 
I am glad of an opportunity to desciribe the 
cry of the deer by another word than braying, 
although the latter has been sanctified by th^ 
use of the Scottish metrical translation of the 
Psalms. Bell seems to be an abbreviation of 
bellow. This sylvan sound conveyed grea' 
delight to our ancestors, chiefly, I' suppose. 



6o8 



APPENDIX. 



from association. A gentle knight in the reign 
of Henry VII [., Sir Thomas Wortley, bii'iit 
Wantley Lodge, in Wancliffe Forest, for the 
pleasure {,as an ancient inscriptiou testifies) of 
*. listening to the hart's bell.'''' 

Note 49. 

June saw his father'' s overthrow. — P. 76. 

The rebellion against James III, was signal- 
ized by the cruel circumstance of his son's 'pres- 
ence in tlie hostile army. When the King saw 
his own banner displayed against him, and his 
son in the faction of his enemies, he lost the 
little courage he had ever possessed, fled out of 
the field, fell from his horse as it started at a 
woman and water-pitcher, and was slain, it is 
not well understood by whom. James IV., after 
the battle, passed to Stirling, and hearing the 
monks of the chapel-royal deploring the death 
of !iis father, their founder, he was seized with 
deep remorse, which manifested itself in severe 
penances. (See a following Note on stanza ix. 
of canto V.) The battle of SaucTiie-biirn, in 
which James III. fell, was fought i8th June, 
1488. 

Note 50. 
The BoroHgh-moor. — P. 78. 

The Boroi'gh, or Common Moor of Edin- 
burgh, was of very great extent, reaching from 
the southern walls of the city to the bottom of 
Braid Hills. It was anciently a forest ; and, m 
that state, Was so great a nuisance, that the in- 
habitants of Edinburgh had permission granted 
to^hem of building v/ooden galleries, projecting 
over the street, in order to encourage them to 
consume the timber, which they seem to have 
done very effectually, Wiien James IV. mus- 
tered the array of the kingdom there, in 15 13, 
the Borough-moor was, according to Hawthorn- 
den, 'a field spacious, and delightful by the 
shade of many stately and aged oaks." Upon 
that, and similar occasions, the royal standard 
is traditionally said to have been displayed from 
the Hare-Stane, a high stone, now byilt into the 
wall, on the left hand of the high-way leading 
towards Braid, not far from the head of Burnts- 
field Links. The Hare-Stane probably derives 
Its name from the British word Har, signifying 
an army. 

Note 51. 

infyrond ScptlancTs royal shield.. 

The ruddy lion ratnp' d in gold. — P. 79. 

The well-known arms of Scotland. If you 
■will believe Boethiusand Buchanan, the double 
treasure round the shield, mentioned, counter 
fleur-de-lysed er litigued atid ar^ned azure., 
was first assumed by Echaius, King of Scotland, 
contemporary of Charlemagne, and founder of 
the celebrated League with France ; but Inter 
antiquaries make poor Eochy, or Achy, little 
better than a sort of King of Brentford, whom 
old Grig (who hr.s also swelled into Gregorius 
Magnus) associ4ted with himself in the im- 



portant duty of governing some part of the 
north-eastern coast of Scotland. 

Note 52. 

Caledonia'' s Queen is changed. — P. 81. 

The Old Town of Edinburgh was secured on 
the north side by a lake, now drained, and on 
the south by a wall, which there was some 
attempt to make defensible even so late as 
1745. The gates, and the greater part of the 
wall, have been pulled down, in the course of 
the late extensive and beautiful enlargetnent of 
the city. My ingenious and valued friend, Mr. 
Thomas Campbell, proposed to celebrate Edin- 
burgh under the epithet here borrowed- But 
the "Queen of the North " has not been so 
fortunate as to receive from so eminent a pen ^ 1 

the proposed distinction. # I 

Note 53. ■ 

The cloth-yard arrows. — P. 82. 9 

This is no poetical exaggeration. In some ■ 

of the counties of England, distinguished for 
archery, shafts of this extraordinary length were 
actually used. Thus at the battle of Black- 
heath, between the troops of Henry VII., and 
the Cornish insurg'ents, in 1496, the bridge of 
Dartford was defended by a picked band cf 
archers frcm the rebel army, " whose arrows," 
says Holinshed, "were in length a full cloth 
yard." The Scottish, according to Ascham, had 
a proverb, that every English archer earned 
under his belt twenty-four Scots, in allusion to 
his bundle of unerring shafts. 

Note 54. 
He saw the ha rdy burghers there 
March arm'' d on foot with faces bare. 

—P. 82 
The Scottish burgesses were, like yeomen, 
appointed to be armed with bows and sheaves, 
sword, buckler, knife, spear, or a good axe in- • 

stead of a bow, if worth 100/. • their arinor to 
be of white or bright harness. They wore white 
hats, i. e., bright steel caps, without crest or 
visor, By an act of James IV. their weapon ■ 
scha7uings a.re appointed to be held four times a 
year, under the aldermen or bailiffs. 

Note 55. 

On foot the yeomen too 

Each at his back {a slender stored 

His f arty days' provision bore. 

His arins were halbert, axe, or spear. 

—P. 83. 

Bows and quivers were in vain recommended 
to the peasantry of Scotland, by repeated 
statutes ; spears and axes seem universally to 
have been used instead of them. Their defen- 
sive armor was the plate-jack, hauberk, or 
brigantine ; and their missile weapons cross- 
bows and culverins. All wore swords of excel- 
lent temper, according to Patten ; and a volum« 



MARMION. 



609 



inous handkerchief round their neck, " not for 
cold, but for cutting." The mace also was 
much used in the Scottish army. The old poem 
on the battle of Flodden mentions a band — 

"Who manfully did meet their foes, 
With leaden mauls, and lances long." 

When the feudal array of the kingdom was 
called forth, each man was obliged to appear 
with forty day;^' provision. When this was ex- 
pended, which took place before the battle of 
Flodden, the army meV'ed away of course. 
Almost ail the Scottish forces, except a few 
knights, rnen-at-arms, and the Border-prickers, 
who formed excellent light cavalry, acted upon 
foot. 

Note 56. 
A dafiguet rich, and rnsily wivps. 
To Mannion and his train- — ^- 84. 

In all transactions of great or petty import- 
ance, and among whomsoever taking place, it 
would seem that a present of wine was a uni- 
form and indispensable preliminary, ft v/as 
not to Sir John Falstaff alone that such an in- 
troductory preface was necessary, however well 
judged and acceptable on the part of Mr. Brook; 
for Sir Ralph Sadler, while on an embassy to 
Scotland in 1539-40, mentions, with compla- 
cency, '• the same night came Rothesay (the 
herald so called) to me again, and brought me 
wine from the King, both white and red." — 
Clifford'' s Edition, p. 39. 

Note 57. 

his iron-belt., 

That bound his breast in penance paift. 
In vieinory 0/ his father slain. — P. 84. 
Few readers need to be reminded of this belt, 
to the weight of which James added certain 
ounces every year that he lived. Pitscottie 
founds his belief, th^t James was not slain in 
the battle of F.'odden, because the Engliji never 
had this token of the iron-belt to show to any 
Scottishman. The person and character of 
James are delineated according to our best his- 
torians. Kis romantic disposition, which led 
hun highly to relish gayety, approaching to 
license, w'as, at the same time, tinged with en- 
thusiastic devotion. These propensities some- 
times formed a strange contrast. He was wont, 
during his fits of devotion, to assume the dre^s, 
and conform to the rules, of the order of Fran- 
■ciscans ; and when he had thus done penance 
for some time in Stirling, to plunge again mto 
the tide of pleasure. Probably, too, with no 
unusual inconsistency, ha sometimeslaughed at 
the superstitious observances to which he at 
other times subjected himself. 

Note 58. 

Sir Hugh the Heron* s ivi/e. — P. 85. 

It hao "been already noticed (see note to 
Stania xiii. of canto 1.) that King James's ac- 



quaintance with Lady Heron of Ford did not 
commence until he marched into England. Our 
historians impute to the King's infatuated pas- 
sion the delays which led to the fata! defeat of 
Flodden. The author of "The Genealogy of 
the Heron Family" endeavors, with laudable 
anxiety, to clear the Lady Ford from the 
scandal ; that she came and went, however, 
between the armies of James and Surrey is 
certain. See Pinkerton's History and the 
authorities he refers to, vol. ii. p. 99. 

Note 59. 
The fair Queen of France 
Sent him a titrquois rin^^ and glove. 
And charged him, as her knight af id love, 

For her to break a lance- — P. 85. 
"' Also the Queen of France wrote a love- 
letter to the King of Scotland, calling him her 
love, showing him that she had suffered much 
rebuke in F"rance for the defending of his 
honor. She believed surely that he would 
recompense her again with some of his kingly 
support in her necessity ; that is to say, tliat he 
would raise her an army, and come three foot 
of ground on English ground, for her sake. To 
that effect she sent hin. a ring off her finger, 
with fourteen thousand French crowns to pay 
his expenses." Pitscottie, p. no. — A tur- 
quois ring ; probably this fatal gift is, with 
James's sword and dagger, preserved in the 
College of Heralds, London. 

Note 60. 
A rchibald Bell-the-Cat.—'P. 86. 
Arcliibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, a man 
remarkable for strength of body and mind, 
acquired the popular name of Bell-the-Cat, 
upon the following remarkable occasion : — 
James the Third, of whom Pitscottie complains 
that he delighted more in music, and " policies 
of building," than in hunting, hawking, and 
other noble exercises, was so ill advised as lo 
make favorites of his architects and musicians, 
whom the same historian irreverently terms 
masons and fiddlers. His nobility, who did not 
sympathize in the ICing's respect for the fine 
arts, were extremely incensed at the iionors 
conferred <m those persons, particularly on 
Cochrane, a mason, who had been created Earl 
of Mar ; and, seizing tiie opportunity, when, m 
14S2, the King had convoked the whole array 
of the country' to march against the English, 
they held a midnight council in the church of 
Lauder, for the purpose of forcibly removing 
these minions from the King's person. When 
all had agreed on the propriety of this measure, 
Lord Gray told the assembly the apologue of 
the Mice, who had formed a resolution that it 
would be highly advantageous to their com- 
munity to tie a bell round the cai's neck, that 
they might hear her approach at a distance ; but 
which public measure unfortunately miscarried, 
from no mouse being willing to undertake th« 



6io 



APPENDIX. 



task of fastening the bell. " I understand the 
moral," said Angus, "and, tliat what we jiro- 
pose may not lack execution, 1 \\\\\ bell-tke-cat.''^ 

Note 6r. 
Against the ivar had A figns stood, 
A nd chafed his royal Lord. — P. 86. 
Angus was an old man when the war against 
England was resolved upon. He earnestly 
spoke against that measure from its com- 
mencement ; and, on the eve of the battle of 
Flodden, remonstrated so freely upon tlic im- 
policy of fighting, that the King said to him, 
|wilh scorn and indignation, " if he was afraid 
he might go home." The Earl burst into tears 
at this insupportable ii suit, and retired ac- 
cordingly, leaving his sons George, Master of 
Angus, and Sir William of Glenbervie, to com- 
mand his followers. They were both slain in 
the battle, with two hundred gentlemen of the 
name of Douglas. The aged earl, broken- 
hearted at the calamities of his house and his 
country, retired into a religious house, where he 
died abfout a year after the field of Flodden. 

Note 62. 
TaHiallon hold.— 'P. 87. 
The ruins of Tantallon Castle occupy a high 
rock projecting nitn the German Ocean, about 
two miles east of North Berwick. The build- 
ing formed a principal castle of the Douglas 
family, and when the Ear! of Angus was 
banished, in 1527, it continued to hold out j 
against James V. The King went in person I 
against it, and for its reduction^ borrowed from I 
the Castle of Dunbar, then belonging to the 
Duke of Albany, two great cannons, " Thrawn- 
mouth'd Meg and her Marrow;' also, " two j 
great botcards, and two moyan, two double ; 
falcons, and four quarter falcons." Yet, not- i 
withstanding all this apparatus, James was j 
forr -d to raise the siege, and only afterwards I 
obtained possession of Tantallon bv treatv with I 
the governor, Simon Panango. ' When the I 
Earl of Angus returned from banishment, upon 
the death of James, he again obtained posses- 
sion of Tantallon, and it actually afforded ref- 
uge to an English ambassador, under circum- 
stances similar to those described in the text. 
This was no otlier than the celebrated Sir 
Ralph Sadler, who resided there for some time 
under Angus's protection, after tjie failure of 
his negotiations for matching the infant Mary 
with Edward VI. 

Note 63. 
Their motto 07t his blade.— V. 87. 
A very ancient sword, m possession of Lord 
Douglas, btars, among a great deal of flourish- 
mg, two hands pointing to a heart, which is 
placed betwixt them, and the date 1320, beimj 
the year in wliich Bruce cliarged the cond 
Lord Douglas to carry his heart to the Holy 
Land, 



Note 64. 

Martiii Swart.— V. 88. 

A German general, who commanded the 
auxiliaries sent by the Duchess of Burgu-.dy 
with Lambert Simnel. He was defeated and 
killed at Stokefieid. The name of this German 
general is preserved by that of the field of 
battle, which is calkd, after him, Swartnioor.— 
There were songs about him long current 
in England. — = See Dissertation prefixed to 
Ritson's Atzcieiit Songs, 1792, p. Ixi. 

Note 65. 

The Cross.— V. 89. 

The Cross of Edinburgh was an ancient and 
curious structure. The lower part was an 
octagonal tower, sixteen feet in diameter, and 
about fifteen feet high. At each angle there 
was a pillar, and between them an arch, of the 
Grecian shape. Above these was a projecting 
battlernent, with a turret at each corner, and 
medallions, of rude but curious workmanship, 
between them. Above this rose the proper 
Cross, a column of one stone, upwards of twenty 
feet high, surmounted with a unicorn. This 
pillar is preserved in the grounds of the property 
of Drum, near Edinburgh. 

Note 66. 
This aivfnl siunmons came.— P. 89. 
This supernatural citation is mentioned by 
all our Scottish historians. It was, probably, 
like the apparition at Linlithgow, an attempt, 
by those averse to the war, to impose upon the 
superstitious temper of James IV. 

Note 67. 

One of his own ancestry, 

Drove the Monks forth of Coventry.— V. gi. 

This relates to the catastrophe of a 'edl 
Robert de Maimion, in the reign of Kmg 
Stephen, whom William of Newbury describes 
with some attributes of my fictitious hero : 
"Hoinodellicosus,ferocia, etastucia.fere nulla 
sno teinporr iinfrnr.'''' Tliis Baron, having ex- 
pelled the Monks from the church of Coventry, 
was not long of experiencing tlie Divine judg- 
rnent, as the same monks, no doubt, termed his 
disaster. Having waged a feudal war with the 
Earl of Chester, Marmion's horse fell, as he 
charged in the van of his troop, asainst a body 
of the Earl's followers ; the rider's thi^h being 
broken by the fall, his head was cut off by a 
common foot-soldier, ere he could receive any 
succor. The whole story is told by William 
of Newbury. 

Note 68. 

The savage Dane 

AtTol more dee/> the mead did drain.— V. 92. 

The lol of the lieathen Danes (a word still 

applied to Christmas in Scotland) was solem* 



MARMION. 



6ii 



nixed with great festivity. The humor of 
the Danes at table displayed itself in pelting 
each other witii bones ; and Torfasus telis a 
long and curious story, in the History of 
Hrolfe Kraka, of one Hottus, an inmate of the 
Court of Denmark, who was so generally as- 
sailed with these missiles, that he constructed, 
out of the bones with which he was over- 
whelmed, a very respectable intrenchment, 
against those who continued the raillery. 

Note 6g. 
Who lists tnay in their imnnmiiig see 
Traces of a7icient mystery. — P. 93. 
It seems certain, that the Ahanuiers of 
England, who (in Northumberlar.d at least) 
used to go about in disguise to the neighbor- 
ing houses, bearing the then useless plough- 
share ; and the Guisards of Scotlai'.d, not yet 
m total disuse, present, in some indistinct 
degree, a shadow of the old mysteries, which 
were the origin of the English drama. In 
Scotland {me ipso teste), we were wont, during 
my boyhood, to take the characters of the 
aposlles, at least of Peter, Paul, and Judas 
l^carint ; the first had the keys, the second 
carried a sword, and the last the' bag, in which 
the dole of our neighbors' plum-cake was de- 
posited. One played a champion, and recited 
some traditional rhymes ; another was 

" Alexander, King of Macedon, 
Who conquer'd all the world but Scotland 
alone." 
These, and many such verses, were repeated, 
but by rote, and unconnectedly. There was 
also, occasionally, I believe, a Saint George. 
In all, there was a confused resemblance of the 
ancient mysteries, in which the characters of 
Scripture, the Nine Worthies and other popu- 
lar personages, were usually exhibited. 

Note 70. 

TJie Highlander 

Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, 
If ask' d to tell a fairy tale. — P. 94. 

Tiie Daoine shi\ or I^en of Peace, of the 
Scottish Highlanders, rather resemble the Scan- 
dinavian Duergar than the English Fairies. 
Notwithstanding their name, they are, if not 
absolutely malevo'ent, at least peevish, dis- 
contented, and apt to do mischief on slight 
provocation. The belief of their existence is 
deeply impressed on the High'anders, who 
thmk they are particularly offended at mortals 
who talk to them, who wear their favorite 
co'or (green), or in any respect interfere with 
their affairs. This is especially to be avoided 
on Friday, when, whether as dedicated to 
Venus, with whom, in Germany, this subter- 
raneous people are held nearly connected, or 
for a more solemn reason, they are more 
active, and possessed of greater power. Some 
euriou.5 particulars concerning the popular su- 



perstition of the Highlanders may be found in 
Dr. Graham's P icturesque Sketches of Perth- 
shire. 

Note 71. 

The last lord of Franchhnojtt.—^. 94. 

The journal of the friend to- whom the 
Fourth Canto of the Poem is inscribed, fur- 
nished me with the fohowing account of a 
striking superstition. 

" Passed the pretty little village of Franch^- 
mont (near Spaw), with the roniaiitic ruins of 
the old castle of the Counts of that name. The 
road leads though many delightful vales on a 
rising ground ; at the extremity of one of them 
stands the ancient castle, now the subject of 
many superstitious legends. It is firmly be- 
lieved by the neighboring peasantry, that the 
last Baron of Franchemoiit deposited, in one ( f 
the vaults of the castle, a ponderous chett, 
containing an immense treasure in gold and 
silver, which, by some magic spell, was in- 
trusted to the care of tlie Devil, who is con. 
stantly found sitting on the chest in the shapft 
of a huntsman. Any one adventurous enough 
to touch the chest is instantly seized with tlie 
palsy. Upon one occasion, a priest of noted 
piety VTOS brought to the vault : he used ail the 
arts of exorcism to persuade his infernal majesty 
to vacate his seat, but in vain ; the huntsnia:: 
remained immovable. At last, moved by the 
earnestness of the priest, he told him that he 
would agree to resign the chest, if the exorciser 
would sign his name with blood. But the 
priest understood his meaning, and refused, as 
by that act he would have delivered over his 
soul to the Devil. Yet if anybody can dis- 
cover the mystic words used by the person who 
deposited the treasure, and pronounce them, 
the fiend must instantly decamp. I had many 
stories of a similar nature from a peasant, whp. 
had himscif seen the Devil in the shape 
great cat." ' ^ 

Note 72. 

the huge and sweeping brand 

Which wo fit of yore, in battle fray y 
His f0eman'' s limbs to shred aivay, 
A J wood-knife lops the sapling spray. 

—P. 98. 
The Earl of Angus had strength and per- 
sonal activity corresponding to his courage. 
Spens of Kilspindie, a favorite of James IV., 
having spoken of him lightly, the Earl met 
him while hawking, and, compelling him to 
single combat, at one blow cut asunder his 
thigh-bone, and killed him on the spot. Bui 
ere he could obtain James's pardon for this 
slaughter, Angus was obliged to yield his 
castle of Hermitage, in exchange for that of 
Bothwell, which was some diminution to the 
family greatness. The sword with which he 
struck so remarkable a blow, was presented 
by his descendant James, Earl of Morton, 



612 



APPENDIX. 



afterwards Regent of Scotland, to Lord Lin- 
dcsay of the Byres, when he defied Both- 
well to single combat on Carberry Hill. See 
Introduction to the Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
Border, 

Note 73. 

A nd hopesi thou hence unscathed to f;o ? — 
No ! by St. Bride of BothwelU no I 
Up drawbridge, grooms ! — IVhat, IVarder, 
hoi 
Let the portcullis fall.— P. gg. 

This ebullition of violence in the potent Earl 
of Angus is not without its example in the -eal 
history of the house of Douglas, whose ch ef- 
tains possessed the ferocity with the heroic 
virtues of a savage state. The most curious 
instance occurred in the case of Maclellan, 
Tutor of Bombay, who, having refused to 
acknowledge the pre-eminence claimed by 
Douglas over the gentlemen and Barons of 
Galloway, was seized and imprisoned by the 
Earl, in his castle of the Thrieve, on the 
borders of Kirkcudbrightshire. Sir Patrick 
Gray, commander of King James the Second's j 
guard, was uncle to the Tutor of Bombay, and i 
obtained from the King a " sweet letter of sup- i 
plication," praying the Earl to deliver his 
prisoner into Gray's hand. When Sir Patrick 
arrived at the castle, he was received with all 
the honor due to a favorite servant of the 
King's household ; but while he was at dinner, 
the Earl, who suspected liis errand, caused his 
prisoner to be led forth and beheaded. After 
dinner. Sir Patrick presented the King's letter 
to the Earl, who received it with great affecta- 
tion of reverence ; " and took liim by the hand, 
and led him forth to the green, where the 
gentleman was lying dead, and showed him 
the manner, and said, 'Sir Patrick, you are 
come ci little too late ; vonder is your sister's 
son lying, but he wants his head : take his 
body, and do with it what you will.' — Sir 
Patrick answered again, with a sore heart, and 
said, ' My lord, if ye have taken from him his 
head, dispone upon the bodv as ye please ; ' 
and with that called for his horse, and leaped 
thereon ; and when he was on horseback, he 
said to the Earl on this manner, ' My lord, if 
I live you shall be rewarded for your labors 
that you have used at this time, according to 
your demerits.' 

" At this saying the Earl was highly of- 
fended, and cried for horse. Sir Patrick, see- 
ing the EarHs fury, spurred his horse, but he 
was chased near Edinburgh ere they left him ; 
and had it not been his led horse was so tried 
aiud good he had been taken."— Pitscottie's 
nisiory, p. 39. 

Note 74. 
A letter forged '. — Saint Jude to speed! 
Did ever knight so foul a deed ! — P. 99. 
Lest the reader should partake of the Earl's 



astt;:':hnient, and consider the crime 1 incon* 
sictcnt with the mannerc of th' period, I have 
to remind him of the numerous forgerie (partly 
executed by a female assistant) devised by 
Robert of Artois, to forward his suitagainsi the 
Countess Matilda ; which, being detectec, oc 
casioned his flight into England, and proved 
the remote cause of Edward the Third's me- 
morable wars in France. John Harding, also, 
was expressly hired by Edward I. to forge such 
documffnts as might appear to establish the 
claim of fealty asserted over Scotland by the 
English monarchs. 

Note 75. 

Twisel bridge.— v. 100. 

On the evening previous to the memorable 
battle of Flodden, Surrey's head-quarters were 
at Barmoor Wood, and King James held an 
inaccessible position on the ridge of Flodden- 
hill, one of the last and lowest eminences de- 
tached from the ridge of Cheviot. The Till, a 
deep and slow river, winded between the 
armies. On the morning of the 9th September, 
1513, Surrey marched in a north-westerly direc- 
tion, and crossed the Till, with his van and 
artillery, at Twiselbridge, nigh where that river 
joins the Tweed, ins rear-guard column passing 
about a mile higher, by a ford. This move- 
ment had the double effect of placing his army 
between King James and his supplies from 
Scotland, and of striking the Scottish monarch 
with surprise, as he seems to have relied on the 
depth of the river in his front. But as the 
passage, both over the bridge and through the 
ford, was difficult and slow, it seems possible 
that the English might have been attacked to 
great advantage while struggling with these 
natural obstacles. I know not if we are to 
impute James's forbearance to want of military 
skill, or to the romantic declaration which 
Pitscottie puts in his mouth, "that he was 
determined to have his enemies before him on 
a plain field," and therefore would suffer no 
interruption to be given, even by artillery, to 
their passing the river. 

Note 76. 

Hence might they see the full array, 
Of either host, for deadly fray. — P. loi. 

ih2 reader cannot here expect a full account 
of the battle of Flodden , but, so far as is 
necessary to understand the romance, I beg to 
remind liim, that, when the English army, by 
their skilful countermarch, were fairly placed 
between King James and his own country, the 
Scottish monarch resolved to fight ; and, setting 
fire to his tents, descended from the ridge of 
Flodden to secure the neighboring eminence 
of Brankstone, on which that vill.-.ge is built. 
Thus the two armies met, almost without see- 
ing each other, wiien, according K) the old 
poem, of '* Flodden Field," 



MARMION. 



613 



"Tlie English line stvetch'd east and west, 
And southward were their faces set ; 
The Scottish northward proudly prest, 
And manfully their foes they met." 
The English army advanced in four divisions. 
On the right, which first engaged, were the 
sons of Earl Surrey, namely, Thomas Howard, 
ihe Admiral of England, and Sir Edmund, the 
Knight Marshal of the army. Their divisions 
were separated from each other ; but, at the 
request of Sir Edmund, his brother's battalion 
was drawn very near to his own. Tlie centre 
w:.s commanded by Surrey in person ; the left 
wing ly Sir Edward Stanley, with tlie men gf 
Lai.cashire, and of the palatinate of Chester. 
Lo:d Dacres, with a large body of horse, 
fo.in d a reserve. When the smoke, which 
thi wind had driven between the armies, was 
somew'.iat dispersed, they perceived the Scots, 
who had moved down the hill in a similar order 
of bittle and in deep silence. The Earls of 
Hu.itley and of Home commanded their left 
wing, and charged Sir Edmund Howard with 
such success as entirely to defeat his jiart of 
the English right wing. Sir Edmund's banner 
was beaten down, and he himself escaped with 
difficulty to his brother's division. The Ad- 
miral, hovv'ever, stood firm ; and Dacre advanc- 
ing to his support with the reserve of cavalry, 
pr' bably between the intervals of the divisions 
commanded by the brothers Howard, appears 
to have kept the victors in effectual check. 
Home's men, ch.efly Borderers, began to pillage 
the baggage of both armies ; and their leader 
is branded by the Scottish historians with neg- 
ligence or treachery. On the other hand, 
Himt!ey, on whom they bestow many en- 
comiums, is said by the English historians to 
liave ieft the field after the first charge. Mean- 
while the Admiral, wiiose flank these chiefs 
ought to have attacked, avril -d himself of their 
inactivity, and pushed forward against another 
large division of the Scottish army in his front, 
headed by the Earls of Crawford and Mont- 
rose, both of whom were slain, and their forces 
routed. On the left, the success cf the English 
was yet more decisive ; for the Scottish right 
wing, consisting of undisciplined Highlanders, 
commanded by Lennox and Argyle, was unable 
to sustain the charge of Sir Edward Stanley, 
and especially the severe execution of the Lan- 
cashire archers. The King and Surrey, who 
commanded the respective centres of their 
armies, were meanwhile engaged m close and 
.iubious conflict. James, surrounded ■ bv the 
liower of Ins kingdom, and, impatient of the 
g-.lling discharge of arrov.'s, supported also by 
his reserve undej Bothwell, charged with such 
fury, that the standard of Surrey was in f-anger. 
At that critical moment, Stanley, wiio had 
routed the left wing of the Scottish, pursued 
his career of victory and arrived on the .right 
flank, and in the rear of James's division, which, 
throwing itself into a circle, disputed the battle 
till night came on. Surrey theM drew back his 



forces ; for the Scottish centre not having beon 
broken, and their left wing being victorious, he 
yet doubted the event of the field. The Scot- 
tish army, however, felt their loss, and aban- 
doned- the field of battle in disorder, before 
dawn. They lost, perhaps, from eight lo ten 
thousand men ; but that included the veiy 
prime of their nobility, gentry, and even clergy. 
Scarce a family of eminence but has an an- 
cestor killed at Flodden , and there is no prov- 
ince in Scotland, even at this day, where tlie 
battle is mentioned vviihnut a sensation of 
terror and sortcv/. The English lost, also, a 
great number of men, perhaps wi ii n one-third 
of the vanquished, but they v. e-t- of inferior 
note. 

Nora 77. 

Brian Tmisiall, stainless knight. — 

P 102. 

I Sir Brian Tunstall, called in the romanti^ 

i language of the time, Tunstail the Undefiled, 

was one of the few Englishmen of rank slain 

I at Flodden. He figures in the ancient English 

I poem, to which I may safely refer my readers , 

i as an edition, with full explanatory notes, has 

been published by my fri?nd, Mr. Henry 

1 Weber. Tunstall, perhaps, derived his epitliet 

j oi undejiledliom his while armor and banner, 

I the laticr bearing a v/hite cock, about to crow, 

I as well as from his unstained loyalty and 

knightly faith. His place of residence was 

Thurlaud Castle. 

Note 78. 

Reckless 0/ life, he desperate fought, 

A nd fell on Flodden plain I 
A ltd ivell m death his trusty brand, 
Ftr'.n clenched within his manly hand. 
Beseem'' d the monarch slain. — P. 105, 
There can be no doubt that King James fell 
in the battle of Flodden. He was killed, says 
the curious French Gazette, within a lai ce's 
length of tlie Earl of Surrey , and the same 
account adds, that none of his division were 
made p.risoners, though many were killed ; a 
circumstance that testifies the desperation of 
their resistance. The Scottish historians re- 
j cord many of the idle reports which passed 
among the vulgar of their day. Home was ac- 
I cused by the popular voice, not only of fail- 
1 ing to support the King, but even of having- 
I carried him out of the field, and murdered him.. 
I And this tale was revived in my remembrance, 
by an unaulhenticated story (jf a skeleton, 
wrapped in a bull's hide, and surrounded wim 
j an iron chain, said to have been found in the 
well of Home Castle ; for which, on inquirx', 
\ ] could never find any better authority than the 
': sexton of the parish having said that, ij the 
veil mere denned out, he ^votdd not be snr- 
pri-sed at such a discovery. Home was the 
chamberlain of the King, and his ]3iii.ne favor- 
ite ; he had much to lose (in fact did lose \< i) 
in consequence of James's death, and nctluji.- 



6i4 



APPENDIX 



earthly to gain In' that event ; but the retreat, 
or ma'ciivity ( f the left wiivg which he com- 
manded, after defeating Sir Edmund Howard, 
ar.d even the circumstance of his returning un- 
hurt, and loaded with spoil, from so fatal a 
conflict, rendered the propagation of any 
calumny against him easy and acceptable. 
Other reports gave a still more romantic turn 
to the King's fate, and averred, that James, 
weary cvf greatness, after the carnage annmg 
Ills nobles, had gone on a pilgrimage, to merit 
absolution for the death of his father, and the 
breach of his oath of amity to Henry. In par- 
ticular, it was objected to the English, that 
they could never shfiw the token of the iron 
belt , vvliich, iiowever, he was likely enough to 
have laid aside on the day of tlie battle, as en- 
cumbering his personal exertions. They produce 
a belter evidence, the monarch's sword and 
dagger, which are still preserved in the Herald's 
College in London. Stowe has recorded a de- 
gracRng story of the disgrace with which the 



remains of the unfortunate monarch were treated 
in his time. An unhewn column marks the 
spot where James fell, still called the King's 
Stone. 

Note ^q. 
The fair cathedral storm'' d and took.— 

P 105. 
This storm of Lichfield cathedral, which had 
been garrisoned on the part of the King, took 
place m the Great Civil War. Lord Brook, 
who, with Sir John Gill, commanded the as- 
sailanis, was shot with a musket-ball through 
the vizor of his helmet. The royalists remarked, 
that he was killed by a shot fired from St. 
Chad's cathedral, and upon St. Chad's Day, 
and received his death-wound in the very eye 
with which, he had said, he hoped to see the 
ruin of all the cathedrals in England. The 
magnificent church in question suffered cruelly 
upon this and other occaGions ; the principal 
spire being ruined by the fire of the besiegers. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



Note t. 

- the heights of Uam-Var^ 
And roused the ca-'eni, where ^ "'tis told, 
A giant tnnde his de7t of old. — P. 1 1 1. 

Ua-var, as the name is pronounced, or more 
prop-erly Uaighmor, is a mountain to the 
north-east of the village of Callender in Men- 
teitli, deriving its name, which signities the 
great den or cavern, from a sort of retreat 
among the rocks on the south side, said, by 
tradition, to have been the abode of a giant. 
In latter times, it was the refuge of robbers 
and banditti, who have been only extirpated 
within these forty or fifty years. Strictly 
speaking, this stronghold is not a cave, as the 
name would imply, but a sort of small encloju.e, 
or recess, surrounded witli large rocks, and 
open above head. 

Note 2. 

Two dogs of hlack Saint Hubert'' s breed, 
U/tmatch^d for courage, breath, and speed. 
P. III. 

*' The hounds which we call Saint Hubert's 
hounds, are commonly all blacke, yet neuer- 
thcless, the race is so mingled at these days, 
that we find them of ail colours. These are 
the hounds which the abbots of St. Hubert 
haue always kept some of their race or kind, 
in honour or remembrance of the saint, wliich 



was a hunter with S. Eustace. Whereup.in 
we may conceiuc that (by the grace of God) 
all good huntsmen sliall follow them into par- 
adise." — The Noble Art of Vetierie or Hunt - 
ing, translated and collected for the Use of all 
Noblemen and Gentlemen. Lond. 161 1, 4to, 
P- 15- 

Note 3. 

For the death-ivonnd and death-halloo, 
Muster' d his breath, his whinyard dre7v. — 



When the stag turned to bay, the ancient 
hunter had the perilous task of going in upon, 
and killing or disabling the desperate animal. 
At certain times of tlie year this was held par- 
ticularly dangerous, a wound received from a 
stag's iiorn lieing then deemed poisonous, and 
more dangerous than one from tlie tusks of .k 
boar, as the old rhyme testifies : — 

"If thou be hurt with hart, it brings thee to thy 
bier. 
But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, there- 
fore thou need'st not fear." 

At all times, however, the task was dangerous, 
and to be adventured upon wisely and warily, 
either by getting behind the stag while he was 
gazing on the hounds, or by watching au op- 
portunity to gallop roundly m upon him, and 
kill him with the sword. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



6>S 



Note 4. 

Andtiow to issue from the ^len, 
Nc pathway meets the wanderer^ s ken. 
Unless he c limit, with footing- nice, 
A far projecting precipice. ^-P. 112. 

Until the present road was made through 
tlie romantic jiass which 1 have presumptu- 
ously attempted to describe in tlie preceding 
stanzas, there was no mode of issuing out of 
tlie defile called the Trosachs, excepting by a 
sort of ladder, composed of the branches and 
roots of trees. 

Note 5. 

To tneet with Highland plunderers here. 

Were worse than loss 0/ steed or deer. — 
P. 113. 

The clans who inhabited the romantic regions 
in the neighborhood of Loch Katvine, were, 
even until a late period, nuicli addicted to 
predatory excursions upon their Lowland 
neighbors. 

Note 6. 

A gray-hair'' d sire, 2vhose eye itttent, 
IVas on the vis toned future bent. — P. X14. 

If force of evidence could authorize us to be- 
lieve facts inconsistent with the general laws of 
nature, enotigh might be produced in favor of 
the existence of the Second-sight. It is called 
in Gaelic Taishitaraugh, from Taish, an un- 
real or shadowy appearance ; and those pos- 
sessed of the faculty are called Taishatrin, 
which may be aptly translated visionaries. 
Martin, a steady believer in the second-sight, 
gives the following account of it : — 

"The second-sight is a singular faculty, of 
seeing an otherwise invisible object, witliout 
any previous means used by the person that 
used It for that end ; the vision makes such a 
lively impression upon the seers, that they 
neither see, nor think of anything else, except 
the vision, as long as it continues ; and then 
they appear pensive o; jovial, acco'ding to the 
object that was represented to them. 

" At the s'ght of a vision, the eyelids of the 
person are erected, and the eyes continue star- 
ing until the object vanish. This is obvious to 
others who are by, when the persons happen to 
see a vision, and occurred more than once to 
rny own observation, and to others that were 
with me, 

" If a woman is seen standing at a man's left 
hand, it is a presage that she will be his wife, 
*?iiether they be married to others, or unmarried 
at the time of the apparition. 

" To see a spark of fire fall upon one's arm or 
breast, is a forerunner of a dead child to be seen 
in the arms of those persons ; of which there 
are several fresh instances. 

'•To see a seat empty at the time of one's 
sifting in it, is a presage 'of that jterson's death 
soon after." — Martin's Description of the 
Western Islands, 1716, Svo, p. 300, et seq. 



To these particulars innumerable examples 
might be added, all attested by grave and 
credible authors. But, in despite of evidence 
which neither Bacon, l-)Oyle, nor Johnson were 
able to resist, the Taisch, with all its visionary 
properties, seems to be new universally aban- 
doned to the use of jiociivy. The exquisitely 
beautiful poem of Lochicl will at once occur to 
the recollection of every reader. 

Note 7. 
Here, for retreat in dangerous hottr, 
So7ne chief had framed a rustic bower. 

P. iiv 
The Celtic chieftains, whose lives were con- 
tinually exposed to peril, had usually, in the 
most retired spot of their domains, some place 
of retreat for the hour of necessity, which, as 
circumstances would admit, was a tower, a 
cavern, or a rustic hut, in a strong and secluded 
situation. One of these last gave refuge to the 
unfonuiiate Charles Edv.ard, in his perilous 
wanderings after the battle of Culloden. 

Note 8. 

My stre's tall form might grace the part 

Of Ferragus or Ascabart. — P. 116. 

These two sons of Anak flourished in roman- 
tic fable. The first is well known to the ad- 
mirers of Ariosto, by the name of Ferrau. He 
was an antagonist of Orlando, and was at length 
slain by him m single combat. 

Ascapart, or Ascabart, makes a very material 
figure in the History of Bevis of Hampton, by 
whom he was conquered. His effigies may be 
seen guarding one side of agate at Southampton, 
while the other is occupied by Sir Bevis himself. 

Note q. 

Though all unask'd his birth and name. — 
^ P. .16. 

The Highlanders, who carried hospitality to 
a punctilious excess, aie said to have considered 
It as churlish, to ask a stranger his name or 
lineage, before he had taken refreshment. 
Feuds were so frequent among their 'Aat a 
contrary rule would in many cases h<.v6 pro- 
duced the discovery of some circumstance, 
which might have excluded the guest from the 
benefit of the assistance he stood in need of. 

Note 10. 
Morn' s gefiial iiifiuence roused a minstre 
gray 

Allan Bane.— ^. 117. 

The Highland chieftains retained in their 
service the bard, as a family ofificer, to a late 
period. 

Note h. 

The Grcpme.—V. \i%. 

The ancient and powerful family of Graham 

(which, for metrical reasons, is here spelt after 

i the Scottish pronunciation) held extensive po«« 



6i6 



APPENDIX. 



sessions in the counties of Dumbarton and Stir- 
ling. Few families can boast of more historical 
renown, having claim to three of the most re- 
markable characters in the Scottish annals. Sir 
John the Grsenie, the faithful and undaunted 
partaker of the labors and patriotic warfare of 
Waflace, fell in the unfortunate field of Falkirk, 
J29S. The celebrated Marquis of Montrose, in 
whom De Retz saw realized his abstract idea of 
the heroes of antiquity, was the second of these 
worthies. And, notwithstanding the severity 
of his temper, and the rigor with which he 
executed the oppressive mandates of the princes 
whom he served, I do not hesitate to name as 
a third, John Grsnie of Claverhouse, Viscount 
of Dundee, whose heroic death m the arms of 
victory may be allowed to cancel the memory 
of his cruefty to the nonconformists, during the 
reigns of Charles II. and James II. 

Note 12. 

This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd. 
-P. .19. 

I am not prepared to show that Saint Modan 
was a performer on the harp. It was, however, 
no unsaintly accomplishment ; for Saint Dun- 
stan certamly did play upon that instrument, 
which retaining, as was natural, a portion of 
the sanctity attached to its master's character, 
announced future events by its spontaneous 
sound. 

Note 13. 

Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven. 
Were exiled from their native heaven. 

—P. tig. 
The downfall of the Doug'asses of the house 

of Angus during the reign of James V. is the 

event alluded to in the text 

Note 14 

In Holy-Rood a Imight lie slew. — P. 120. 

This was by no means an uncommon occur- 
rence in the Court of Scotland ; nay, the 
presence of the sovereign himself scarcelv re- 
strained the ferocious and inveterate feuds 
•which were the perpetual source of bloodshed 
among the Scottish nobility. The murder of 
Sir William Stuart of Ochiltree, called The 
Bloody, by the celebrated Francis, Earl of 
Bothwell, may be mentioned among many 
others.— JoHNSTONi Historia Rermn Bj-itan- 
nidirum, ab anno 1572 ad annum 162S. Am- 
stelodami, 1655, fol. p. 135. 

Note 15. 

TIijs Douglas, like a stricken deer, 
Disow7i'd by every noble peer. — P. 120. 

The exile state of this powerful race is not 
exaggirated in this and subsequent passages. 
The hatred of James against the race of Doug- 
las was so inveterate, that numerous as their 



allies were, and disregarded as the regal author- 
ity had usually been in similar cases, their 
nearest friends, even in the most remote parts 
of Scotland, durst not entertain them, unless 
under the strictest and closest disguise. 

Note 16. 

Maronnan^ s cell. — P- 120. 

The parish of Kilmaronock, at the eastera 
extremity of Loch Lomond, derives its name 
from a cell or chapel, dedicated to St. Maro 
nock, or Marnock, or Maronnan, about whort 
sanctity very little is now remembered. There 
is a fountain devoted to him in the same pa'ish ; 
but its virtues, like the merits of its patron, have 
fallen into oblivion. 

Note 17. 

Bracklinn^ s thundering wave. — P. 120. 

This is a beautiful cascade made by a moun- 
tain stream called the Keltic, at a place called 
the Bridge of Bracklinn, about a mile from the 
village of Callender in Menteith. 

Note 18. 
For Tine-tnan forged by fairy lore. —"2 . 120. 

Archibald, the third Earl of Douglas, was so 
unfortunate in all his enterprises, that he ac- 
quired the epithet of Tineman, because he 
lined, or lost^ his followers, in every battle 
which he fought. 

Note 19. 
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow 
The footstep of a secret foe. — P. 120. 
The ancient warriors, whose hope and con- 
fidence rested chiefly in their blades, were ac-^ 
customed to deduce omens from them, especially 
from such as was supposed to have been fabri- 
cated by enchanted skill, of which we have 
various instances in the romances and legends 
of the time. 

Note 20. 

Those thrilling sounds tJiat call the might 
Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.— V. 121. 

The connoisseurs in pipe-music affect to dis- 
cover in a well-composed pibroch, the imitative 
sounds of march, conflict, flight, pursuit, and all 
the " current of a heady fight." 

Note 21. 
Roderigh Vich A Ipine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! 

— P. 12 T. 

Besides his nrdinary name and surname, 
which were chiefly used in the intercourse with 
the Lowlands, every Highland chief had an 
epithet expressive of his patriarchal dignity as 
head of the clan, and which was common to 
all his predecessors and successors, as Pharaoh 
to the kings of Egypt, or Arsaces to those el 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



617 



Parthia, this name was usually a patronymic, 
expressive of his descend from the founder of 
the family. Thus the Duke of Argyle is called 
MacCallum JMore, or the son 0/ Colin the Great, 

Note 22. 

And whilt the Fiery Cross (glanced like a 

fneteor, round. — P. 126. 

When a chieftain designed to summ.on his 
clan upon any sudden or important emergency, 
he slew a goat, and making a cross of any light 
wood, sear,?d its extrenieties in the fire, and ex- 
tinguished them in the blood of the animal. 
This was called the Fiery Cross, also Crcan 
Tartghy or the' Cross of Shame, because dis- 
obedience to what the symbol implied, inferred 
infamy. It was delivered (0 a swift and trustj- 
messenger, who ran full sp?ed with it to the 
next hamlet, whf^re he presented it to the prin- 
cipal person, with a single wo.d, implying the 
place of rendejs\ous, !!•> who received the 
symbol was bound to send it iorward with equal 
despatch to the next village, and thus it passed 
with incredible celerity through all the district 
which owed allegiance to the chief, and also 
among his allies and neighbors, if the danger 
was common to them. At sight of the Fier>' 
Cross, every man, 11 om sixteen years old to 
sixty, capable of bearing arms, was obliged in- 
stantly to repair, in his best arms and accoutre- 
ments, to the place of rendezyons. He who 
failed to appear, suffered the extremities of fire 
and sword, which were emblematically de- 
nounced to the disobedient by the bloody and 
burnt marks upon th;.^ warlike sgnnl During 
the civil war of 17.^1; -6, the Fiery Crn<;s oi.en 
made its circuit: and upon oae occasion it 
passed through the whole district of Brcidal- 
bane, a tract of thirty-two miles, in three hours. 

Note 23. 
That monk, of savage form and face. — P. 127. 

The state of religion in the middle ages 
afforded considerable facilities for those whose 
mode of life excluded them from regular wor- 
sJiip, to secure, nevertheless, the ghostly assist- 
ance of confessors, perfectly willing to adapt 
the nature of their doctrine to the necessities 
and _ peculiar circumstances of their flock. 
Robin Hood, it is well known, had his cele- 
brated domestic chaplain, Friar Tuck. 

Note 24. 

Of Brian'' s birth strange tales were told. 

-P. 127. 

The legend which follows is not of the author's 
invention. It is possible he may differ from 
modern critics, in supposing that the records of 
human superstition, if peculiar to, and r^irac- 
terislic of, the country in which the sc^ue is 
laid, are a legitimate subject of poetry. He 
gives, however, ready assent to the narrower 
>rr- osition which condemns all attempts of an 



irregular and disordered fancy to excite terror, 
by accumulating a train of fantastic and inco- 
herent horrors, whether borrowed from all 
countries and patched upon a narrative belong- 
ing to one which knew them not, or derived 
from the author's own imagination. In the 
present case, therefore, I appeal to the record 
which I have transcribed, with the variation of 
a very few words from the geographical collec- 
tions made by the Laird of Macfarlane. I 
know not whether it be necessary to remark, 
that the miscellaneous concourse of youths and 
maidens on the night and on the spot where the 
miracle is eaid to have taken place, might, even 
in a credulous age, have somewhat diminished 
the wonder which accompanied the conception 
of Giili-Doir-Magrevolich. 

"There is bot two myles from Inverloghie, 
; the church of Kilmalee, in Lochyeld. In an- 
I cient tymes there was ane church builded upon 
I ane hill, which was above this church, which 
I doeth now stand in this toune ; and ancient 
i men doeth say, that thei'e was a battell fouchten 
on ane litle hill notthet^^nth part ofamyl^from 
this church, be certainc ;en which they did not 
know what they were. And long tyme there- 
after, certaine herds of that toune, and of the 
next toune, called Unnatt, both wenches and 
youthes, did on a tyme conveen with others on 
that hill; and the day being somewhat cold, 
did gather the bones of the deafl men that were 
slayne long tyme before in that place, and did 
make a fire to warm them. At last they did 
all remove from the fire, except one maid or 
wench, which w.-.s verie cold, and she did re- 
maine there for a space. She being quyetlie 
her alone, without anie other companie, took 
j lip her cloaths above her knees, or thereby to 
I .varm her; a wind did come and caste the 
ashes upon her, and she was conceived of ane 
innn-chyld. Severall tymes thereafter she was 
verie s-lck, and at last -he was knowne to be 
with chyld. And then her parents did ask at 
her the mntter heiroff, which the wench could 
not weel answer which way to satisfie them. At 
last she resolved them with ane answer. As 
fortune fell upon her concerning this marvellous 
miracle, the chyld being borne, his name was 
called Gili-doir Ma^hrevollich, that is to sav, 
the Black Child, Son to i',; Bo?ies. So called, 
his grandfather sent him to school, and so he 
was a good schollar, and godlie. He did buiid 
this church which doeth now stand in Lochyeld, 
called Kilmalie."— Macfarlane^ utsupr'a, iL 
1S8. 

Note 35. 

Yet ne''er again to braid her hair 

The Virgin snood did Alice wear.~P. 127. 

The S7iood, or riband, with which a Scottisli 
lass braided her hair, had an emblematical sig. 
nification, and applied to her maiden character, 
It was exchanged for the curch, toy, or coif- 
when she passed, by marriage, into the matron 
state. But if the damsel was so unfortunate as 
to lose pretensions to the name of maid«a 



6iS 



APPENDIX. 



without gaining a right to tlmt of matron, she 
was neither permitted to use the siiood, nor 
advanced to the graver dignity of the curch. 
In old Scottish songs there occur many sly ahu- 
sions to such misfortune : as in the old words to 
the popular tune of " Owerthe muir aniang the 
heather."^ 

" Down amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
The lassie lost her silken snood, 
That i^ard her greet till she was wearie." 

Note 26. 

The fatal Ben-Shie' s boding scream.. — P. 128. 

Most great families m the Highlands were 
supposed to have a tutelar, or rather a domes- 
tic spnit, attached to them, who took an in- 
terest in their prosperity, and intimated, by its 
waihngs, any approaching disaster. A super- 
stition of the same kind is, I believe, univers- 
ally received by the irrferior ranks of the native 
Irish. 

Note 27. 

Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast 
0/ charging steeds^ careerifig fast 
A lo7ig Benharrow' s shingly side, 
Where morial horsemen ne'er mifht ride. 
-P. 128. 

A presage of'the kind alluded to in the text, 
is still believed to announce death to the an- 
cient Highland family of M'Lean of Lochbuy. 
The spirit of an ancestor slain in battle is heard 
to gallop along a stony bank, and then to ride 
thrice around the family residence, ringing his 
fairy bridle, and thus intimating the approach- 
ing calamity. 

Note 28. 

— — the dun deer''s hide 
On fleeter foot was never tied. — P. 129. 

The present brogue of the Highlanders is 
made of half-dried leather, with holes to admit 
and let out the water ; for walking the moors 
dry-shod is a matter altogether out of the ques- 
tion. The ancif^nt buskin was still ruder, being 
made of undressed deer's hide, with the hair 
outwards ; a circumstance which procured the 
Highlanders the well-known epithec of Red- 
ykanks. 

Note 29. 

The dismal coronach. — 130. 

'ihe Coronach of the Highlander?, like the 
Ululains of the Romans, and the Uhdoo of 
che Irish, was a wild expression of lamenta- 
iion, poured f>rth by the mourners over the 
Dody of a departed friend. When the words 
of it were articulate, they expressed the praises 
of the deceased, and the loss the clan would 
•u^^in by his dcbth. 



Note 30, 

Not faster o'er iky heathery IraeSf 
Balquidder, speeds tht midnight blaze. 

-P. ilz 

It may be necessary to inform the southern 
reader, that the heath on the Scottish moor- 
lands is often set fire to, that ihe sheep may 
have the advantage of the young herbage pro- 
duced m room of the tough old heather plants. 
This custom (execrated by sportsmen) pro- 
duces occasionally the most beautiful nocturnal 
apueaiances, similar almost to the discharge 
of a volcano. This simile is not new to poetry. 
The charge of a warrior, in tke fine ballad of 
Hardyknute, is said to be " like fire to heather 
set." 

Note 31. 

by many a bard, in Celtic tongue^ 

Has Coir-natt-Uriskin been sung.— P. 132 

This is a very steep and most romantic hol- 
low in the mountain of Benvenue, overhanging 
the south-eastern extremity of Loch Katrine. 
It IS surrounded with stupendous rocks, and 
overshadowed with birch-trees, mingled with 
I oaks, the spontaneous production of the rnoun- 
I tain, even where its cliffs appear denuded of 



\ Note 32. 

The Tnghairm calVd ; by which, afar. 

Our sires foresazu the events of-var.—'P. 134. 

j The Highlanders, like all rude people, had 
various superstitious modes of inquirin;;; into 
futurity. One of the most noted was the Tag- 
■ hairm, mentioned in the text. A person was 
i wrapped up in the skin of a newly-slain bul- 
ilock, and deposited beside a waterfall, or at 
! the bottom of a precipice, or in some other 
• strange, wild, and unusual situation, where 
jthe scenery around him suggested nothing 
j but subjects of horror. In this situation, he 
1 revolved in his mind the question proposed; 
i'and whatever was impressed upon him by 
I his exalted imagination, passed for the in- 
j spiration of the disembodied spirits, who 
i haunt the desolate recesses. 



Note 33. 

that huge cliff, whose ample verge 

Traditioji calls the Hero's Targe. — P. 135. 

There is a rock so named in the Forest of 
Glcntinlas, by which a tumultuary cataract 
takes its course. This wild place is said in 
former times to have afforded refuge to an out- 
law, who was supplied with provisions by a 
woman, who lowered them down from the 
brink of the precipice above. His water he pro- 
cured for himself,by lettingdown a tlagontied 
to a string, into the black pool beneath the fall. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



619 



NOTB 34. 

Which spills the foremost foeman^ s life. 
That party conquers in tlie strife. — Po 135, 

Thou'gh this be in the text described as a lo- 
sponse of the Taghairm, or Oracle of the Hide, 
it was Oi itself an augury frequently attended 
to. The fate of the bait.e was often anticipated 
\\\ the imagination of the combatants, by o!;- 
serving which party first shed blood. It 
is said that the Highlanders under Montrose 
were bo deeply imbued with this notion, that, 
on the morning of the battle of Tippermoor, 
they murdered a defenceless herdsman, whom 
they found in the fields, merely to secure 
an advantage of so much consequence to their 
party. 

Note 35. 

Why srvnds yofi stroke on beech and oak, 
Our moonlight circle's screen ? 

O.' who comes here to chase the deer, 
Belov.d of our Elfin Queen ? — P. 137. 

Fairies, if not positively malevolent, are ca- 
pricious, and easily offended. They are, like 
Other proprietors of the forest, peculiarly jeal- 
ous of their rights ot vert and venison. This 
jealousy was also an attribute of tlie northern 
Duergar, or dwarfs ; to many of whose dis- 
tinctions the fairies seem to have succeeded, 
if, indeed, they are not the same class of 
beings. 

Note 36. 

' — ivho may darx on ivold to wear 
The fairies' fatal green? — P. 137. 

As the Daoifie Shi^, or Mju f Peace, wore 
green habits, they were supposed to take of- 
fence when any mortals ventured to assume 
their favorite color. Indeed, from some reason 
which has been, perhaps, originally a general 
superstition, green is held in Scotland to be 
unlucl<y to particular tribes and counties. The 
Caithness men, who hold this belief, allege as a 
reason, that their bands wore that color when 
they were cut off at the battle of Flodden; and 
for the same reason they avoid crossing the 
Ord on a Monday, being the day of the week 
on which their ill-omened array set forth. 
Green is also disliked by those of the name of 
Ogilvy ; but more especially it is held fatal to 
tlie whole clan of Grahame. It is remembered 
of an aged gentleman of that name, that wli-n 
his horse fell in a fox-chase, he accounted for 
it at once by observing, that the whipcord I 
attached to his lash was of this unlucky color. 

I 
Note 37. I 

For thou wert christened man. — P. 137. 

The elves were supposed greatly to envy the 
privileges acquired by Christian initiation, and 
they gave to those mortals who had fallen into 
their power a certain precedence, founded upon i 



this advantageous distinction. Tamlane, in the 
old ballad, describes his own rank in the iairy 
procession : — 

*' For I ride on a milk-white steed, 
And aye nearest the town ; 
Because I was a chnsten'd knight. 
They gave me that renown. 

Note 3S. 

Who ever reck'd, where, hozv, or when, 
The prowli7igfox was trapped or slain ? 

—P. 142 

St. John actually used this illustration when 
engaged in confuting the plea of law pioposed 
for the unfortunate Earl of Strafford : " It was 
true we gave laws to hares and deer, because 
they are beasts of chase ; but it was never ac- 
counted either cruelty or foal play to knock 
foxes or wolves on the head as they can be 
found, because they are beasts of prey. In a 
word, the law and humanity were alike : the 
one being more falacious, aiid the other more 
barbarous, than in any age had been vented 
in such an authority.'"— Clarendon's //wif^iry 
q/the Rebellion. Oxford, 1702, fol. vol. p. 183. 

Uotb 3» 

his II Lghlana cheer. 

The hardened flesh ot mountain deer. — P. i-j2. 

The Scottish Highlanders in former times, 
had a concise mode of cooking their venison, 
or rather of dispensing with cooking It, wliich 
ajipears greatly to have surprised the French 
whom chance made acquainted with it. The 
Vidame of Charters, when a hostage in Eng- 
land, during the reign of Edward VI., was per- 
mitted to travel into Scotland, and penetrated 
as far as to the remote Highlands {au fin fond 
ies Sauvages). After a great hunting party, at 
which a most wonderful quantity of game was 
destroyed, he saw these Scottish Savages 
devour a part of their venison raw, without any 
farther preparation than compressing it be- 
tween two batons of wood, so as to force out 
the blood and render it extremely hard. Tliis 
they reckoned a great delicacy ; and when the 
Vidame partook of it, his compliance with their 
taste rendered him extremely popular. 

Notr 40. 

Not then clai^r^ d soverei^^nty his due 

IV/rile Albany, with feeble hand, 

Held borrow' d tru7tcheon ofcojnniand. 

-P. i«. 

There is scarcely a more disorderly period in 
Scottish history than that which succeeded the 
battle of P'jodden, and occupied the minority (i 
James V. Feuds of ancient standing broke out 
like old wounds, and every quarrel among the 
independent nobility, which occurred daily, and 
almost hourly, gave rise to fresh bIocd*h«d. 



620 



APPENDIX 



Note 41, 

/ only meant 

To show the reed on which yoti leant, 
Deenimg this ^ath yoii might pursue 
U'ithout a pass from Roderick Dhu. — P. 



[45. 



This incident, like some other passages in the 
poem, illustrative of the character of the ancient 
Gael, is not imaginary, but borrowed from fact. 
Tiie Highlanders, with the inconsistency of 
snost nations in the same state, were alternately 
capable of great exertions of generosity, and of 
cruel revenge and perfidy. 

Note 42 

Ott Bochastle the mouldering lines, 
Where Rome, the E^npress 0/ the world, 
O/yore her eagle-wings unfurV d.—^ . 145. 

The torrent which discharges itself from | 
Loch Vennachar, the lowest and eastmost of 
the three lakes which form the scenery adjoin- 
ing to the Trosachs, sweeps through a flat and 
extensive moor, called Bochastle. Upon a small 
eminence, called the Dun of Bochastle, and in- 
deed on the plain itself, are some intrench- 
nients, which have been thought Roman. 
There is, adjacent to Callender, a sweet villa, 
the residence of Captain Fairfoul, entitled the 
Roman Camp. 

Note 43. 

Sec, here, all vantageless I stand, 
Arfn'd, like thyself, wiih single brand, 

—P. 145. 

The duellists of former times did not always 
stand upon those punctilios respecting equality 
of arms, which are now judged es'^ential to fair 
combat. It is true, that in former c-mbats in 
the lists, the parties were, by the judges of the 
field, put as nearly as possible in the same 
circumstances. But in private duel it was often 
otherwise. 

Note 44. 

Ill fared it then -with Roderick Dhu, 
That on the field his iar£e he threw. 
For traitt^d abroad his arms to wield, 
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 
—P. J46. 

A round target of light wood, covered with 
Strong leather, "and studded with brass or iron, 
was a necessary part of a Hiclilander's equip- 
ment. In cliarging regular troops, they re- 
ceived the thrust of the bayonet in this buckler, 
twisted it aside, and u=ed the broadsword 
against the encumbered soldier. In the civil 
■war of 1745, most of the front rank of the clans 
were thus armed ; and Captain Grose informs 
us, that, in 1747, the privates of the 42d regi- 
ment, then in Flanders, were, for the most 
part, permitted to carry targets. — Military 
^ntiqnities, vol. i. p. 164. 



Note 45. 

The burghers hold their % ports to-day . — 

^ P. I4«. 

Every burgh of Scotland, of the least note, 
but more especially the considerable towns, had 
their solemn play, or festival, when feats of 
archery were exhibited, and prizes distributed 
to those who excelled in wrestling, hurling the 
bar, and the other gymnastic exercises of the 
period. Stirling, a usual place of royal resi- 
dence, was not likely to be deficient in pomp 
upon such occasions, especially since James v. 
was very partial to them. His ready partici- 
pation in these popular amusements was one 
cause of his acquirmg the title of King of the 
Commons, or Rex Plebeiorum, as Les.ey has 
latinized it. The usual prize to the best shooter 
was a Silver arrow. Such a one is presei ved at 
Seikiik and at Peebles. 

TToTE 46. 

Robin Hood.-'P. 14S. 
The exhibition cf this renowned outlaw and 
his band was a favorite frolic at such festivals 
as we are describing. This sporting, in which 
kings did not disdain to be actors, was pro- 
hibited in Scotland upon the Reformation, by a 
statute, of the 6th Parliament of Queen Mary, 
c. 61, A.D. 1555, which ordered, under heavy 
penalties; that, '' na manner of ]:erson be chosen 
Robert Hude, nor Little John, Abbot of Un- 
reason, Queen of j\lay, nor otherwise." But iu 
1561, the " rascal multitude," says John Knox, 
"were stirred up to make a Robin Hude, whilk 
enormity was of many years left and damned 
by statute and act of Parliament ; yet would 
they not be forbidden." Accordingly, they 
raised a very serious tumult, and at length 
made prisoners the magistrates who endeav- . 
ored to suppress it, and would not release 
them till they extorted a formal promise that 
no one should be punished for his share of the 
disturbance. It would seem, from the com- 
plaints of the General Assembly of the Kirk, 
that these profane festivites were continued 
(jown to 1592. 

Note 47. 

Prize of the wrestling match, the King 
To Douglas gave a golden ring,—V. 148. 

The usual prize of a wrestling was a ram and 
a ring, but the animal would have embarrassed 
my story. Thus, in the Cokes Tale of Game'JyT.. 
ascribed to Chaucer : 

" There happed to be there beside, 
Tryed a wrestling ; 
And therefore there was y-setten 
A ram and als a ring." 

Note 48. 
These drew not for their fields the stvor-^ 
Like tenants ofnfeudall^rd. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



632 



Nor own* d the patriarchal claim 
O/Chie/taui in their leader'' s name ; 
Adventurers theji.—V. 151. 

The Scottish armies consisted chiefly of the 
nobility and barons, with their vassals, wlio 
held lands under them, for military service by 
themselves and their tenants. The patriarchal 
influence exercised by the heads of clans in 
the Highlands and Borders was of a different 
nature, and sometimes at variance with feudal 
principles- It flowed from the Patria Foiestas, 
exercised by the chieftain as representing the 
original father of the whole name, and was 
often obeyed in contradiction to the feudal 
superior. 

Note 49. 

Tkou now hast glee-maiden and harp I 
Get thee an ape, and trudge the lands 
The leader of a juggler band. — P. 152. 

The jongleurs, or jugglers, used to call \w the 
aid of various assistants, to render these per- 
formances as captivating as possible . The glee- 
maiden was a necessary attendant. Her duty 
was tumbling and dancing ; and therefore the 
Anglo-Saxon version of Saint Mark's Gospel 
states Herodias to have vaulted or tumbled 
before King Heroc 

Note 50. 

That st 17 ring air that peals on high. 
O'er Derm id s race our victory, — 
Strike tt !j?. 155. 

There are several instances, at least in tradi- 
tion, of persons sc much attached to particular 
tunes, as to require to hear them on their death- 
bed. Such an anecdote is mentioned by the 
late Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, in his collection 
of Border tunes, respecting ari air called the 
" Dandling of the Bairns," for which a certain 
Gallovidian iaird is said to have evinced this 
strong mark of partiality. It is popularly tod 
of-a famous freebooter, that he composed the 
tune known by the name of Macphersi n's 
Rant, while under sentence of death, and played 
it at the gallows-tree. Some spirited words 
have been adapted to it by Burns. A similar 
*tory IS recorded of a Welsh bard, who com- 
posed and played en his deathbed the air called 
Da-fyddy Garregg H^'ett. 



Note 51. 

Battle 0/ BeaV an Dtiine. — P. 155. 

A skirmish actually took place at a pass thii* 
cailed in the Trosachs, and closed with the 
remarkable incident mentioned in the text, ft 
was greatly posterior in date to the reign oi 
James V. •■ 

Note 52. 

And SnOTvdoun's Kmght is Scotland' s Kiv^. 
—P. 15S,, 

This discovery will- probably remind the 
reader of the beautiful Arabian tale of // Bon- 
docani. Yet the incident is not borrowed from 
that elegant story, but from Scottish tradition. 
James V., of whom we are treating, was a 
monarch whose good and benevolent intejitions 
often rendered his romantic freaks venial, if 
not respectable, since, from his anxious atten- 
tion to the interests of the lower and most op- 
pressed class of his subjects, he was, as we have 
seen, popularly termed the King 0/ the Com- 
mons. For the purpose of seeing that justice 
was regularly administered, and frequently 
from the less justifiable motive of gallantry, he 
used to traverse the vicinage of his several palaces 
in various disguises. The two excellent comic 
songs, entitled, " The Gaberlunzie man," and 
'* We'll gae nae mair a lovinr," are said to have 
been founded upon the success of his amorous 
adventures when travelling in the disguise of a 
beggar. The latter is perhaps the best comic 
ballad in any language. 

Note 53. 

Stirling's tower 

0/ yore Hie name 0/ Snowdoun claims. 

-P 159. 

[ William of Worcester, who wrote about the 
I middle of the fifteenth century, calls Stirling 
! Cast'e Sr.owdoun. Sir David Lindsay bestows 
j the same epithet upon it in his complaint of the 
I Papirgo: 

Adieu, fair Snawdoun, with thy towers high. 

Thy chaple-royal, park, and table round; ' 
May, June, and July, would I dwell in ifceCf 
Were I a man, to hear the birdis .■^ound, 
\ Whilk doth againe thy royal rock leboutti." 



622 



APPENOrX. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



Note i. 

AndCatlyeatks ^lens iniih voice of triumph 
run^, 
A»d mystic Merlin havp'd, and gray-hair'' d 
Llywrach sung ! — P. x62. 

This locality may startle those readers who do 
-;zt recollect that much of the ancient poetry 
i^^reserved in Wales refers less to tlie history of 
the Principality to which that name is now 
limited, than tc events which happened in the 
north-west of England and south-west of Scot- 
land, where the Britons for a long time made a 
stand against the Saxons. The battle of Cat- 
treath, lamented by the celebrated Aneurin, is j 
supposed, by the learned Dr- Leyden, to have 
been fought on the skirts of Ettrick Forest. It I 
1? known to the English reader by the para- 
pluase of Gray, beginning, — 

*' Had I but the torrent's might 
With headlong rage and wild affright," &c. 

Note 2. 

--^ — Minchtnore' s hau7iied spring. — P. '63. 

A belief in the existence and nocturnal revels 
tif the fairies still lingers among tiie vulgar in 
Selkirkshire. A copious fountain upon the 
ndge of Mirchmore, called the Cheesewell, is 
supposed to be sacnd to these fanciful spirits, 
and it was customary tc propitiate tliem by 
tl-, rowing in something upon passing t A pin 
was the usual oblation ; and the ceremony is 
stiil sometimes practised, though rather in jest 
than earnest 

IJOTH 3. 

the rude villager, his lab->r done, 

Jn verse spontanem~s chants some favo'/d 
name. -V. 163. 

Tlie flex:bi';ty of the Italian and Spanish 
languages, and perhaps the liveliness of their 
j:;enius, renders these countries distinguished 
^or the talent of improvisation, which is found 
even among the lowest of the people. It is 
aseiuioued by Baietti and other travellers. 

Note 4. 

— — kindling at the deeds 0/ Grcnte. — P. 163. 

Over a name sacred for ages to heroic verse, 
a poet may be allowed to exercise some power. 
I have used the freedom, here and elsewhere, 
to filter the orthography of the name of my 
pallant countryman, in order to apprise the 
Southern reader of its legitimate sound ;— 
Grahame beinj, on the other side of the Tweed, 
5isuilly i:ro!iounced as a dissyllable. 



Note 5. 

What ' will Don Roderick here till worn' 

ing Ktay, 

To wear in shrift and prayer the night away' 

A ndare his hows in such dull penance pa^i. 

For fair Fior inda' s plunder' d char ms topay^ 

-P. i.'>4. 

Almost all the Spanish historians, as well iu 
the voice of tradition, ascribe the invasion oi 
the iMoors to the forcible violation committed 
by Roderick upon Florinda, called by the 
Moors, Caba or Cava. She vvas the daughtei 
of Count Julian, one of the Gothic monarch's 
principal lieutenants, who, when the crime wa-s 
perpetrated, vvas engaged in the defence of 
Ceuta against the Moors. In his indignation 
at the ingratitude of his sovereign, and the 
dishonor of his daughter, Count Julian forgot 
the duties of a Christian and a patriot, and, 
forming an alliance with Musa, then the 
Caliph's lieutenant in Africa, he countenanced 
the invasion of Spain by a body of Saracens 
and Africans, commanded by the celebrated 
Tarik ; the :ssuc cf which was the defeat and 
death ff Roderick, and the occupation of 
almost the wl . e peninsula by the Moors. 
Voltaire, in His General History, expresses his 
doubts of this popular story, and Gibbon gives 
him some countenance ; but the universal tradi- 
tion is quite sufficient for the purposes oi 
poetry The Spaniards, in detestation of Fio- 
nnda's memory, are said, by Cervantes, never 
to bestow that name on any human female, re- 
serving It for their dogs- 

Note 6. 
Th^ Tecbir war-cry and the Lelie's yell. 

—P. 166. 

The Tecbir (derived from the words Alla^ 

acbar, God is most mighty), was the original 

var-cry of the Saracens. It is celebrated by 

H; ghes in the Siege of Damascus :— 

" We heard the Tecbir ; so these Arabs call 
Their shout of onset, when, with loud appeal. 
They challenge Heaven, as if demanding 

conquest." 
The Lelie, well known to the Christian 
during the crusades, is the shout oiAlla ilia 
Alia, the Mahometan confession of faith. It 
is twice used in poetry by my friend Mr. W. 
Stewart Rose, in the romance of Partenopex, 
and in the Crusade of Sf. Lewis. 

Note 7. 
By Heaven, the Moors prevail ! the Christiant 
yield ! — 
Their coward leader gives for Jiigh* tht 
sign I 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



623 



The sceptred craven mounts to quit the field — 
Is itot yOH steed Orella ? — Y'es^ His mine ! 1 
— P. .67. I 

Count Julian, the father of the injured Flo- { 
rinda, with the connivance and assistance of 1 
Oppas, Archbishop of Toledo, invited, in yfi, ] 
the' Saracens into Spain. A considerable army 
arrived under the command of Tarik, or Tarif, 
who bequeathed the well-known name of Gib- j 
raltar {Gibel al Tarik, or the mountain of 
Tarik) to the place of his landing. He was 
IJoined by Count Julian, ravaged Andalusia, 
and took Seville. In 714, they returned with 
a still greater force, and Roderick marched 
into Andalusia at the head of a great army, to 
give them battle. The field was chosen near 
Xcres. [Roderick was defeated, and fled from 
the field of battle on his favorite steed Orciia. 
Tills famous and matchless charger was found 
riderless on the banks of the river Giiadelite, 
with the King's upper garment, buskins, &c. 
It was supposed that m trying to swim the river 
he was drowned. But wild legions as to his 
after fate long prevailed in Spain.— See South- 
Ev's '* Don Roderick." — Ed.1 



Note S. 

When for the light bolero ready standi 
TIze mozo blithe, with gay muchaclui met^ 
—P. 169. 

The bolero is a very light and active dance, 
much practised by the Spaniards, in which 
castanets are always used. Mozo and mucha- 
cha are equivalent to our phrase of lad and 

lass. 

NoTH q. 
While trumpets rang, and heralds cried, 
" Castile !" — P- 170. 
The heralds, at the coronation of a Spanish 
monarch, proclaim his name three times, and 
repeat three times the word Castilla, Castilla, 
Castilla : which, with all other ceremonies, 
was carefully copied in the mock inauguration 
of Joseph Bonaparte. 

Note 10. 
High blazed the war, and long, and far, and 
wide. —P. 171. 
Those who were disposed to believe that 
mere virtue and energy are able of thaniseives 
to work forth the salvation of an oppressed 
people, surprised in a moment of confidence, 
deprived of their officers, armies, and for- 
tresses, who had every means of resistance to 
seek in the very moment when they were to be 
made use of, and whom the numerous treasons 
among the higlier orders deprived of confidence 
in their natural leaders, — those whoertertained 
this entliusiastic but delusive opinion may be 
pardoned for expressing their disappointment 
at the protracted warfare in the Peninsula. 
There are, however, another class of persons, 



who, having themselves the hk;hest dread or 
veneration, or something allied to botl:, for the 
power of the modern Attila, will nevertheless 
give the heroical Spainards little o;- no credit 
for the long, stubborn, and unsubdued resist- 
ance of thiee years to a power before whom 
tho'.r former well-prepared, well-armed, and 
numerouc adversaries fell in the couise of as 
many months- While these gentlemen plead 
for deference to Bonaparte, and crave 
** Respect for his great place, and bid the devil 

Be duly honor'd for his burning throne," 
it may not be altogether unreasonable to claim 
some modification of censure upon those who 
have been long and to a great extent success- 
fully resisting this great enemy of mankind. 
That the energy of Spain has not uniformly 
been directed by conduct equal to its vigor, 
has been too obvious ; that her armies, under 
their complicated disadvantages, have shared 
the fate of such as were defeated after taking 
the field with every possible advantage of arms 
and discipline, is surely not to be wondered at. 
But that a nation, under the circumstances of 
repeated discomfiture, internal treason, and 
the mismanagement incident to a temporary 
and hastily adopted government, should have 
wasted, by its stubborn, uniform, and pro- 
longed resistance, myriads after myriads of 
those soldiers who had overrun the world — 
that some of its provinces should, like Galicia, 
after being abandoned by their allies, and 
overrun by their enemies, have recovered their 
freedom by their own unassisted exertions ; 
that others, like Catalonia, undismayed by the, 
treason which betrayed some fortresses, and 
the force which subdued others, should not oiny 
have continued their resistance, but have at- 
tained over their victorious enemy a superiority, 
which is even now enabling them to besiege 
and retake the place of strength which had 
been wrested from them, is a tale hitherto uu' 
told in the revolutionary war. 

Note 11. 
Thev won not Zarngoza, bid her children's 
b:oody tomb. — P. 172. 

The interesting account of Mr. Vaughan has 
made most readers acquainted with the first 
siege of Zaragoza. The last and fatal siege of 
that gallant and devoted city is detailed with 
great eloquence and 'precision in the " Edir.- 
burgh Annual Register" for i8og, — a work ir 
which the affairs^of Spain have been treate^a 
of with attention corresponding to their ^^ars 
interest, and to the peculiar sources of informa- 
tion open to the historian. The follo\ying are 
a few brief extracts from this splendid historical 
narrative: — 

" A breach was soon made in the mud walls, 
and then, as in the former siege, the war was 
carried on in the streets and houses ; but the 
French had been taught by experience, chai 
in this species of warfare the Zaragozans de- 



624 



APPENDIX. 



rhred a superiority from the feeling and prin- 
ciple which inspired them, and the cause for 
which they fought. The only means of cor.- 
nuering Zaragoza was to destroy it house by 
liouse, and street by street ; and upon this 
system of destruction they proceeded. Three 
companies of miners, and eight companies of 
sappers, carried on this subterraneous war ; 
the Spaniards, it is said, attempted to oppose 
them by countermines ; these were operations 
to which they were wholly unused, and, ac- 
cording to the French statement, their miners 
were every day discovered and suffocatec'. 
Meantime, the bombardment v/as incessantly 
kept up. * Within the last forty-eight hours/ 
said Palafox in a letter to his friend General 
Doyle, '6000 shells have been thrown in. Two- 
thirds of the town are in nuns, but we >hall 
perish under the ruins of the remaining liiird 
rather than surrender.' In the course of the 
siege, above 17,000 bombs were thrown at th.e 
town ; the stock of powder with which Zaragoza 
had been stored was exhausted ; they had none 
at last but what they manufactured day by 
day ; and no other cannon-ballE; than those 
which were shot into the town, and winch they 
collected and fired back upon the enemy" 

In the midst of tiiese honors and privrition";. 
the pesiilence broke out in Zava^cza. lo 
various cause-, enumerated by the annali^^t, he 
adds, "scantiness of food, crowded quarters, 
unusual exertion of body, anxiety of mind, and 
the impossib/..ty of recruiting their exhausted 
strength by needful rest, in a city wh ch was 
almost incessantly bombarded, and where every 
hour their sleep was broken by the tremendous 
explosion of mines. There was now no respite, 
either by day or night, for this devoted city ; 
even the natural order of light and darkness 
was destroyed in Zaragoza ; by day it was in 
volved in a red sulphureous atmosphere of 
smoke, w'lich liid the face of heaven ; by ni'^hr, 
the fire of cannons and mortars, and the flames 
of burning houses, kept it in a state cf terrific 
iiAimination. 

"When once the pestilence had begun, it 
was impossible to check its progress, or confine 
it to cne quarter of the city. Hospitals were 
immediately established, — there were above 
thirty of them ; as soon as one was destroyed 
by the bombardment, the patients were re- 
moved to another, and thus the infection \yas 
:.;rriod to every part of Zaragoza. Faniiiie 
aggravated the evil ; the city had probably 
rot been sufficiently provided at the com- 
mencement of the siege, and of the provisions 
wiiich it contained, much was destroyed in the 
daily ruin which the mines and bombs had 
effected. Had the Zaragozans and their gar- 
rison proceeded according to military rules, 
tliey would have surrendered before the end 
nf January ; their batteries had then been 
demolished, there were open breaches in many 
parts of iheir weak walls, and the enemy were 
aire? *y vitliin the city. Oa the 30th, ab::ve 
aistj ieu&es were blown up, and the French 



I obtained possession of tlie monasteries of the 
Augustines and Las Monicas, which adjoined 
each other, two of the last defensible places 
left. Tlie enemy forced their way into the 
church ; every column, every chapel, every 
altar, became a point of deferce, which was 
repeatedly attacked, taken, and retaken ; tlie 
pavement was Covered with blood, th.e aisles 
and body of the church strewed w.th the dead, 
who were trampled under foot by the com- 
batants. In the midst of this conflict, the roof, 
shattered by repeated bombs, fell in ; the few 
wlio were not crushed, after a short pause, 
which this tremendous shock, and their own 
unexpected escape, occasioned, renewed the 
fight with rekindled fury ; fresh parties of the 
enemy poured in ; monks and citizen?, and 
soldiers, came to the defence, and the contest 
y/as continued upon the ruins, and the bodies 
of the dead and the dying." 

Yet, seventeen days after sustaining the-.e 
extremities, did the heroic inhabitants of Zara- 
goza continue their defence ; nor did they thc.i 
surrender until their despair had extracted 
trom the French generals a capitulation, more 
honorable than has been granted to fortresses 
cf the first order. 

Who sl-.ail venture to refuse the Zaragozans 
the eulogium conferred upon tliem by the elo- 
ruence cf Wordsworth! — "Most gloriously 
have the citizens of Zaragoza proved that the 
tru-' army cf Spain, in a contest of this nature^ 
is the whole people. The same city has also 
exeirplified a melancholy, yea, a dismal truth, 
yet consolatory and full of joy, — that when a 
people are called suddenly to fight for their 
liberty, and are sorely pressed upon, their best 
fie d of battle is the floors upon which their 
children have played ; the chambers where 
the family of each man has slept, (his own or 
his neighbors' ;) upon or under tlie roofs by 
which they have been sheltered ; in the gardens 
of their recreation ; in the street, or in the 
market-place ; before the a tars cf their temples j 
and among their congregated dwellings, blaz- 
ing or uprooted. 

" The go\ernment of Spain must never for- 
get Zaragoza for a moment. Nothing is want- 
ing to produce the same effects everywhere, 
but a ie^iding mind, such as that city was 
blessed with. In the latter contest this ha^ 
been proved ; for Zaragoza contained, at that 
time, bodies of men from almost all parts of 
Spain. The narrative of those two sieges 
should be the manual of every Spaniard. He 
niay add to it the ancient stories of Numantii 
and Saguntum ; let him sleep upon the book 
as a pillow, and, if he be a devout adherent 
to the religion of his ccuntry, let him wear it 
in his bosom for his crucifix to rest upon." — 
Wordsworth on the Conveuiion c/Cintra. 

Note 12. 
The Vatilt of Destiny.— V. 174. 
Before finally dismissing the encluinted 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



625 



cavern of Don Rodericl:, it may be noticed, 
that the legend occurs in one of Calderon's 
plays, eiititJed La Virgin del Sagrario. The 
scene opens with the noise of the chase, and 
Recisundo, a predecessor of Roderick upon 
fhe Gothic throne, enters pursuing 'a stag. 
Tlie animal assumes the form of a man, and 
defies the Knig to enter the cave, which forms 
the bottom of tlie scene, and engage with him 
in single combat. The King accepts the chal- 
lenge, and they engage accordingly, but with- 
out advantage on either side, which induces 
the Genie to inform Recisundo, that he is not 
the monarch for whom the adventure of the 
enchanted cavern is reserved, and he proceeds 
to predict the downfall of the Gothic monarchy, 
and of the Christian religion, which shall atteiid 
the discovery of its mysteries. Recisundo, 
appalled by these prophecies, orders the cavern 
to be secured by a gate and bolts of iron. In 
the second part of the same play, we are in- 
formed that Don Roderick had removed the 
barrier, and transgressed the prohibition of his 
ancestor, and had been apprised by the prod- 
igies which he discovered of the approaching 
ruin of his kingdom. 

Note 13. 

SVhile downward on the land his legions 
press, 
Before them it was rich with vine and flock. 

And smiled like Edett in her sui7tf7ier 
dress ; — 
Behind their ivaste/ul march, a reeking wil- 
derness. — P. 174. 

I have ventured to apply to the movements 
of the French army that sublime passage in the 
prophecies of Joel, which seems applicable to 
them in more respects than that I have adopted 
in the text. One would think their ravages, 
their military appointments, the terror which 
they spread among invaded nations, their 
military discipline, tlieir arts of political intrigue 
and deceit, were distinctly pointed out in the 
following verses of Scripture : — 

"2. A day of darknesse and of gloominesse, 
a day of clouds and of thick darknesse, as the 
morning spread upon the mountains ; a great 
people and a strong, there hath not been ever 
the like, neither shall be any more after it, 
even to the yeares of many generations. 3. 
A fire devoureth before them, and behind them 
a tlame burnetii ; the land is as the garden of 
Eden before them, and behinde them a desolate 
wilderness, yea, and nothing shall escape them. 
4. The appearance of them is as the appear- 
ance of horses ; and as horsemen, so shall they 
runne. 5. Like the noise of chariots on the 
tops of mountains, shall they leap, like the 
noise of a flame of fire that devoureth the 
stubble, as a strong people set in battel array. 
6. Before their face shall the people be much, 
paine' ! ; all faces shall gather blacknesse. 7. 
The) shall run like mighty men, they shall 
tlim> the wall like men of warre, and they 



shall march every one in his wayes, and they 
shall not break their ranks. 8. Neither shall 
one thrust another, they shall walk every op«» 
in his path : and when they fall upon the sword, 
they shall not be wounded, q. They shall run 
to and fro in the citie ; they shall run upon the 
wall, they shall climbe up upon the houses: 
they shall enter in at the windows like a thief. 
10. The earih shall quake before them, the 
heavens shall tremble, the sunne and the moon 
shall be dark, and the starres shall withdraw 
their shining." 

In verse 20th also, which announces the reo 
treat of the northern army, described in such 
dreadful colors, into " a land barren and 
desolate," and the dishonor with which God 
afflicted them for having " magnified them- 
selves to do great things," there are particulars 
not inapplicable to the retreat of Massena ; — 
Divine Providence having, in all ages, attached 
disgrace as the natural punishment of cruelty 
and presumption. 

Note 14. 
The rudest sentinel, in Britain born, 

With horror paused to view the havoe 
done. 
Gave his poor crust to feed sotne wretch for- 
lorn. — P. 175. 

Even the unexampled gallantry of tlie British 
army in the campaign of 1810 — 11, although 
they never fought but to conquer, will do them 
less honor in history tl^n their humanit)', 
attentive to soften to the utmost of their power 
the horrors which war, in its mildcoC aspect, 
must always inflict upon the defer.ciless in- 
habitants of tlie country in which it is waged, 
and which, on this occasion, weie tenfold 
augmented by the barbarous cruelties of the 
French. Soup-kitchens were established by 
subscription among the oflicers, wherever the 
troops were quartered for any length of time. 
The commissaries contributed the heads, feet, 
&c., of the cattle slaughtered for the soldiery; 
rice, vegetables, and bread, where it "could be 
had, were purchased by the officers. Fifty or 
sixty starving peasants were daily fed at one 
of these regimental establishments, and carried 
home the relics to their famished households. 
The emaciated wretches, who could not crawl 
from weakness, were speedily employed in 
pruning their vines. While pursuing Massena, 
the soldiers evinced the same spirit of hunianit}, 
and in many instances, when reduced them- 
selves to short allowance, from having out- 
marched their supplies, they shared their pit- 
tance with the starving inhabitants, who had 
ventured back to view the ruins of their habita- 
tions, burnt by the retreating enemy, and to 
bury the bodies of their relations whom they 
had butchered. Is it possible to know such 
facts without feeling a sort of confidence, that 
those who so well deserve victory are most 
likely to attain it? — It is not the least of Lord 
Wellington's military merits, that the slightest 



626 



APPENDIX. 



disposition towards marauding meets immediate 
punishment. Independentlyof all moral obliga- 
tion, the army whicii is most orderly in a friendly 
country, has always proved most formidable to 
an armed enemy. 

Note 15. 
Vain-glorioiis fuf^itive ! — P. 175. 
The French conducted this memorable re 
treat with much of iht /an/aro>utade proper to 
their country, by which they attempt to impose 
upon others, and perhaps on themselves, a 
belief that they are triumphing in the very 
moment of their discomfiture. On the 30th 
March, 181 r, their rear-guard was overtaken 
near Pega by the British cavalry. Being well 
posted, and conceiving themselves safe from 
infantry (who were indeed many miles in the 
rear), and from artillery, they indulged them- 
selves in parading their bands of music, and 
actually performed " God save tiie King." 
Their minstrelsy was, however, deranged by 
the undesired accompaniment of the British, 
liorse-artillery, on whose part in the concert 
they had not calculated. The surprise was 
sudden, and the rout complete ; for tlie artillery 
and cavalry did execution upon them for about 
four miles, pursuing at the gallop as often as 
they got beyond the range of the guns. 

Note 16. 

Vainly thy squadrons hide Assnava' s plain, 
A nd front the flyiji^ thunders as they roar, 
With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in 
vaift ! — P. 175. 

In the severe action of Fuentes d'Honoro, 
upon 5th May, 181 1, the grand mass of the 
French cavalry attacked the right of the 
British position, covered by two gun^ of the 
horse-artillery, and two squadrons of cavalry. 
After suffering considerable from the fire of the 
guns, which annoyed them in every attempt at 
formation, the enemy turned their wrath en- 
tirely towards them, distributed brandy among 
their troopers, and advanced to carry the field- 
pieces with the desperation of drunken fury. 
They were in nowise checked by the heavy loss 
which they sustained in this daring attempt, 
but closed, and fairly mingled with the British 
cavalry, to whom they bore the proportion of 
t-n to one. Captain Ramsay (let me be per- 
D.itted to name a gallant countryman), who 
eouimanded the two guns, dismissed them at 
th2 gallop, and putting himself at the head of 
the mounted artillerymen, ordered them to fall 
upon the French, sabre-in-hand. This very 
unexpected conversion of artillerymen into 
dragoons, contributed greatly to the defeat of 
the enemy already disconcerted by tlie recep- 
tion they had met from the two British squad- 
rons ; and the appearance of some small re- 
inforcements, notwithstanding the immense 
disproportion of force, put them to absolute 
r»ut. A colonel or major of their cavalry, and 



many prisoners (almost all intoxicated), _ re- 
mained in our possession. Those who consider 
for a moment the difference of the services, and 
how much an artilleryman is necessarily and 
naturally led to identify his own safety and 
utility with abiding by th*^ tremendous imple- 
ment of war, to the exercise of which he -is 
chiefly, if not exclusively, trained, will know 
how to estimate the presence of mind which 
commanded so bold a manoeuvre, and the 
steadiness and confidence with which it wa« 
executed. 

NoTH 17. 
A nd what avails thee that, for Cameron slain. 

Wild from his plaided ranks the yell woi 
given.— v. ^75. 

The gallant Colonel Cameron was wounded 
mortally during the desperate contest in the 
streets of the village called Fuentes d'Honoro. 
He fell at the head of b.is native Highlanders, 
the 71st and 7qth, who raised a dreadful shriek 
of grief and rage. They charged with irresist- 
ible fury, the finest body of French Grenadiers 
ever seen, being a part of Bonaparte's selected 
guard. The officer who led the French, a man 
remarkable for stature and symmetry, was 
killed on tire spot. The Frenchman who 
stepped out of his rank to take aim at Colonel 
Cameron was also bayoneted, pierced with a 
thousand wounds, and almost torn to pieces b; 
the furious Highlanders, who, under tlie com- 
mand of Colonel Cadogan, bore the enemy out 
of the contested ground at the point of the 
bayonet. Massena pays my countrymen a 
singular comi^liment in his account of the attack 
and defence of this village, in which lie sayj 
the British lost many officers, and Scotch. 

Note 18. 
O who shall grudge him Albuerd's bays. 

Who drought a race regenerate to the field. 
Roused them to efnnlate their fathers' praise. 
Tempered their headlong rage, their cour- 
age steeled, 
And raised fair Lusitania'' s fallen shield. 

—P. 176. 

Nothing during the war of Portugal sesms, ' 
to a distinct observer, more deserving of praise, 
than the self-devotion of Field-Marshal Beres 
ford, who was contented to undertake all the. 
hazard of obloquy which might have been 
founded upon any miscarriage in the highly 
important experiment of training the Portugues^e 
troops to an improved state of discipline. In 
exposing liis military reputation to the censure 
of imprudence from the most moderate, and all 
manner of unutterable calumnies from the 
ignorant and malignant, he placed at stake the 
dearest pledge which a military man had to 
offer, and nothing but the deepest conviction of 
the high and essential importance attached to 
success can be supposed an adequate motive- 
How great the chance of miscarriage was sup- 
posed, may be estimated ironi che genersU 



ROKEBY. 



627 



opinion of officers of unquestioned talents and 
experience, possessed of every opportunity of 
information; how completely the expermient 
iias succeeded, and liov/ much tlie spirit and 
patriotism of our ancient allies had been under- 
rated, is evident, not only from those victories 
in which they have borne a distinguished share, 
but from the liberal and highly honorable 
manner in which these opinions have been re- 
tracted. The success of this plan, with all its 
important consequences, we owe to the inde- 
fatigable exertions of Field-Marshal Beresford. 



a race renown' d of old., 

.'Vhose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell. 



Note 19. 

ce renown 
ft has wa\ 

# 

the conquering shout of GrcEine. — P 177. 

This stanza alludes to the various achieve- 
ments of the warlike family of Grjeme, or Gra- 
hame. They are said, by tradition, to have 



descended from the Scottish chief, under v.'hose 
command liis countrymen stormed the wall 
I built by the Emperor Severus between the 
I Friths of Forth and Clyde, the fragments of 
I which are still popularly called Grccmc's Dyke. 
I Sir John the Graeme, " the hardy, wight, arid 
I wise," IS well known as the friend of Sir Wh.iam 
Wallace. Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibbermuir, 
were scenes of the victories of the heroic Mar- 
quis of Montrose. The pass of Kiliycrankie is 
famous for the action between King VViiiiam s 
forces and the Hi^^hlanders in 1689, 

'* Where glad Dundee in faint huzzas expired." 

It is seldom that one line can number so 
many heroes, and yet more rare when it can 
appeal to the glory of a living descendant in 
support of its ancient renown. 

The allusions to the private history and 
character of General Grahame may be illus- 
trated by referring to the eloquent and affect- 
ing speech of Mr. Sheridan, upon the vote of 
thanks to the Victors of Barossa. 



ROKEBY. 



Note i. 
On Barnard'' s towers, and Tees'" s stream,&'c. 
--P. 180. 
" Barnard's Castle," saith old Leland, 
"standrh stately upon Tees." It is founded 
upon' a very high bank, and its ruins '.mpend 
over the river, including within the area a cir- 
cuit of six acres and upwards. This once mag- 
nificent fortress deriv^es its name from its 
founder, Barnard Baliol, the ancestor of the 
short and unfortunate dynasty of that name, 
which succeeded to the Scottish throne under 
the patronage of Edward 1. and Edward III. 
Baliol's Tower, afterwards mentioned in the 
poem, is a round tower of great size, situated 
at the western extremity of the building. It 
bears marks of great antiquity, and was re- 
markable for the curious construction of its 
vaulted roof, which has been lately greatly 
injured by the operations of some persons, to 
whom the tower has been leased for the purpose 
of making patent shot ! The prospect from the 
op of Baliol's Tower commands a tich and mag- 
Bificent view of the wooded valley of the Tees. 

Note 2. 

no human ear, 

UnsharperC d by revenge and fear, 
Could e^er distinguish horse' s clank. — P. i8i. 
I have had occasion to remark, in real life, 
the effect of keen and fervent anxiety in giving 
acuteness to the organs of sense. My gifted 
friend. Miss Joanna Baillie, whose dramatic 
works display such intimate acquaintance witb 



the operations of human passion, has not omitted 
this remarkable circumstance :— 

" De Montfort. {Off his guard.) 'Tis Rezen- 

velt : 1 heard his well-known foot. 
From the first staircase mounting step by step. 
Freb. How quick an ear thou hast for dis- 
tant sound I 
I heard hun not. 

{De Mo7itfort looks embarrassed, am 
is silent.) " 

Note 3. 
The morion's phtmes his visage hide. 
And the buff-coat, an ample fold. 
Mantles his form' s gigantic mould. — P.iSr. 
The use of complete suits of armor was 
fallen into disuse during the Civil War, though 
they were still worn by leaders of rank and im- 
portance. " In the reign of King James I.," 
says our military antiquary, " no great altera- 
tions were made in the article of defensive ar- 
mor, except that the buff-coat, or jerkin, which 
was originally worn under the cuirass, now be- 
came frequently a substitute for it, it having 
been found that a good buff leather would of 
itseif re«ist the stroke of a sword ; this, hww- 
ever, only occasionally took place among the 
the light-armed cavalry and infantry, complete 
suits of armor being still used among the 
heavy-horse. Buff-coats continued to be worn 
by the city-trained bands till within the memory 
of persons now living, so that defensive armor 
may, in some measure, be said to have termi- 
nated in the same materials with which it be* 



628 



APPENDIX. 



gan,that is, the skins of animals, or leather." — 
Grose's Rlilitary Antiquities. Lond. 1801, 
4to., vol. ii. p. 323. 

Of the buff-coats, which were worn over the 
corslets, several are yet preserved ; and Cap- 
tain Grose has given an engraving of one which 
was used ;n the time of Charles I. by Sir 
Fiancis Rhodes, Bart., of Balborough-Hali, 
Derbyshire. 

Note 4. 

On his dark ^ac; a tco'-chiitg clime, 
jifid tod, had done the work 0/ time. 

* » » * # 

Death had he seen by siidden k'ow. 
By wasting- plague, by tortures slow. — P. 182. 
In this character, I have attempted to sketch 
one' of those West Indian adventurers, who, 
during the course of the seventeenth century, 
were popularly known by the name of Bucan- 
eers. The successes of the English in the 
predatory incursions upon Spanish America, 
during the reign of Elizabeth, had never been 
forgotten ; and, from that period downward, 
the exploits of Drake and Raleigh were imi- 
tated, upon a smaller scale indeed, but with 
equally desperate valor, by small bands of 
pirates, gathered from all nations, bui chie'ly 
French and English. The engrossing po'icy of 
the Spaniards tended greatly to increase the 
rumber of cliese freebooters, from whom their 
commerce and colonies suffered, in the issue, 
dreadful calamity. 

Note 5. 

On Mar St on heath 

Met, front to front, the ranks of death 

-P. 182. 
The well-known and desperate battle of 
Long-Marston Moor, which terminated so un- 
fortunately for the cause of Charles, commenced 
under very different auspices. Prince Rupert 
had marched with an army of 20,000 men for 
the relief of York, then besieged bySirTJiomas 
Fairfax, at the head of the Parliamentary army, 
and the Earl of Leven, with the Scottish aux 
ihary forces. In this he so completely suc- 
ceeded, that he compelled the besiegers to re- 
treat to Marston Moor, a large open plain, 
about eight miles distant from the city. Thither 
ihey were followed by the Prince, who had now 
united to his army the garrison of York, prob- 
ibly not less than ten thousand men strong, 
under the gallant Marquis (then Earl) of New- 
castle. Whitelocke has recorded, with much 
impartiality, the following particulars of tiiis 
eventful day :— " The right wing of the Parlia- 
ment was commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax, 
and consisted of all his horse, and three regi- 
ments of the Scots horse ; the left wing was 
commanded by the Earl of Manchester and 
Colonel Cromwell. One body of their foot was 
commanded by Lord Fairfax, and consisted of 
his foot, and two brigades of t?Jt Scots foot for 



reserve ; and the main body of the rest of the 
foot was commanded by General Leven. 

'* The right wing of the Prince's army was 
commanded by the Earl of Newcastle ; the ieft 
wing by the Prince himself ; and the main body 
by General Goring, Sir Charles Lucas, and 
Major-General Porter. Thus were both sidea 
drawn up into battalia- 

" July 3d, 1644. In this posture both armies 
faced each other, and about seven o'clock in the 
morning the fight began between them. The 
Prince, with his left wing, fell on the Parlia- 
ment's right wing, routed them, and pursued 
them a great way ; the like did General Gor- 
ing, Lucas, and Porter, upon the Parliament's 
main body. The three generals, giving all 
for lost, hasted out of the field, and many 
of their soldiers fled, and threw down their 
arms ; the King's forces too eagerly following 
them, :he victory, now almost achieved bytnem, 
was again snatched out of their hands. Vox 
Colonel Cromwell, with the brave regiment 01 
j his countrymen, and Sir Thomas Fairfax, iiav- 
j ,ng rallied some of his horse, fell u))on the 
■ Prince's right wing, where the Earl of New- 
I castlj was, and routed them \ and the '-est of 
their companions rallying, they fell altogether 
j upo i ;he divided bodies of Rupert and Goring, 
j and .otally dispersed them, and obtained a 
coHiplete victory, after three hours' fight. 

" Fmm this battle and the pursuit, some 
reckon were buried 7000 Englishmen ; all agree 
that above 3000 of the Prince's men were slain 
in the battle, besides those in the chase, and 
3000 prisoners taken, many of their chief offi- 
cers, twenty-five pieces of ordnance, forty-seven 
colors, jojooo arms, two wagons of carabins 
and pistols, 130 barrels of powder, and all their 
bag and baggage.*'— WHiTKLOCKE'svI/^;«t'/rj, 
fol. p. 89. Lon i 1682. 

Note 6. 

Monckion and Alilton told the ttews, 
H 07V troops of Roundheads choked the Ouse, 
Andvia}iy a bonnv Scot aghast, 
Spurring his palfrey 7iorthward, past, 
Cursing the day when zeal or 7need 
First lured their Lesley o'er the 'I\veed. 

—P. 185. 
Monckton and Milton are villages near the 
river Ouse, and not very distant from the "fie d 
of battle. The particulars of the action were 
violently disputed at the time ; but the follow- 
ing extract, from the Manuscript History of the 
Baronial House of Somerville, is decisive as to 
the flight of the Scottish general, the Earl of 
Leven. The details are given by the author 
of the history on the authority of his :ati-er, 
then the representative of the family. This 
curious manuscript was published by consent of 
Lord Somerville. 

"The order of this great battel!, wherin 
both armies was neer of ane equall number, 
consisting, to the best calculatione, neer to 
three score thousand men upon both sydes, I 



ROKEBY. 



629 



shall not take upon me todiscryve ; albeit, from 
the draughts then taken upon the place, and 
information I receaved from this gentleman, 
who benig then a volunteer, as having no com- 
jr.and. had opportunitie and hbertie to ryde 
from the one wing of the armie to the other, to 
view all ther several squadrons of horse and 
battalhons of foot, how formed, and in what 
inanner drawn up. with every other circum- 
stance relating to the fight, and that both as 
to the King's aimies and that of the Parlia- 
ment's, amongst whom, untill the engadgment, 
he went from statione to statione to observe 
ther order and forme ; but that the descriptione 
of this battel], with the various success on botii 
sides at the beginning, with the loss of the \ 
royal armie, and the sad effects that followed | 
that misfortune as to his Majestie's interest, 
hes been so often done already by English 
authors, little to our commendatione, how justly 1 
I shall not dispute, seeing the truth is, as our 
principal general! fled that night neer fourtie 
mylles from the place of the fight, that part of 
the armie where he commanded being totallie 
routed ; but it is as true, that much of the vic- 
torie is attributed to the good conduct of David 
Lesselie, lievetennent-general of our horse. 
Cromwell himself, that minione cf fortune, but 
the rod of God's wrath, to punish eftirward three 
rebellious nations, disdained not to take orders 
from him, albeit then in the same qualitie of 
command for the Parliament, as being lieve- 
tennent-general to the Earl of Manchester's 
horse, whom, with the assistance of the Scots 
horse, haveing routed the Prince's right wing, 
as he had done that of the Parliament's. Tiiese 
two commanders of the horse upon that wing 
wisely restrained the great bodies of their horse j 
from persuing these brocken troups, but, wheell- j 
ing to the left-hand,> falls in upon the naked i 
Hanks of the Prince's main baltallion of foot, I 
carrying them doune with great violence ; 
nether mett they with any great resistance un- 1 
till they came to the Marques of Newcastle his | 
battailione of White Coats, who, first pepper- I 
ing them soundly with ther shott, when they | 
came to charge, stoutly bore them up with their 1 
picks that they could not enter to break them, j 
H<ere the Parliament's horse of that wing re- 
ceaved ther greatest losse, and a stop for some- ' 
tyme putt to ther hoped-for victorie ; and that | 
only by the stout resistance of this gallant bat- 
tailione, which consisted neer of four thousand ! 
foot, until at length a Scots regiment of dra- | 
gouns, commanded by Collonell Frizeall, with i 
other two, was brought to open them upon some 
hand, which at length they did, when all the 
ammunitione was spent. Having refused qiiar- ■ 
ters, every man fell in the same order and ranke 
wherein he had foughten. I 

" Be this execution was done, the Prince re- ■ 
turned from the persuite of the right wing of 
the Parliament's horse, which he had beaiten 
and followed too farre, to the losse of the bat- 
tell, which certanely, in all men's opinions, lie 
might have caryed if he had not been too violent 



upon the pursuite ; which gave his enemies 
upon the left-hand opportunitie to disperse and 
cut doune his infantrie, who, having cleared 
the field of all the standing bodies of foot, wer 
now, with many [foot soldiers] of their our.e, 
standing ready to receave the charge of his 
allmost spent horses, if he should attempt it ; 
which the Prince observeing, and seeing all 
lost, he retreated to Yurke with two tliou'sand 
horse. Notwithstanding of this, ther was that 
night such a consternatione in the Parliament 
armies, that it's believed by most of those th,.t 
wer there present, that if the Prince, haven. g 
so great a body of horse inteire, had made ai e. 
onfall that night, or the ensue. ng morning be- 
tyme, he had carryed the victorie out of ther 
hands ; for it's certane by the morning's light, 
he had rallyed a body of ten thousand men, 
wherof ther was neer three thousand gallant 
horse. These, with the assistance of the toune 
and garrisoune of Yorke, might have done 
much to have recovered the victory, for the loss 
of thisbattell in effect lost the King and his in- 
terest in the three kingdomes ; his Majestic 
never being able eftir this to make head in the 
north, but lost his garrisons every day. 

" As for General! Lesselie, in the beginning 
of this flight haveing that part of the army quite 
brocken, whare he had placed himself, by tlie 
valour of the Prince, he imagined, and was 
confermed by the opinione of others then upon 
the place with him, tha: the battel! was irre- 
coverably lost, seeing they wer fleeing upon all 
hand ; theirfore they hamt-lie intreated his ex- 
cellence to reteir and wait his better fortune, 
which, without farder acvyseing, he did ; and 
never drew bridle untiii he came the lenth of 
Leads, having ridden all that night with a cloak 
of drap de berrie about him, belonging to this 
gentleman of whom i write, then in his retinue, 
with many other officers of good qualitie. It 
was neer twelve t.':e next day befor they had 
the certanety who was master of the field, when 
at length ther arryves ar.e express, sent by David 
Lesselie, tc acquaint the General they had ob- 
tained a most glorious victory, and that the 
Prince, with his b-'ocken troupes, was fled from 
Yorke. This intelligence was somewhat amaze- 
ing to these gentlemen that had been eye-wit- 
nesses tc the disorder of the armic before ther 
retearing, and had then accompanyed the 
General in his flight ; who, being much wearyed 
that evening of the battel! with ordering of his 
armie, and now quite spent with his long jour- 
ney in the night, had casten himselfe doune 
upon a bed to rest, when this gentleman come- 
ing quyetly into his chamber, he awoke, and 
■ hastily cryes out, ' Lievetennent-colionell. what 
news ? ' — ' All is safe, may it please your Excel- 
I lence ; the Parliament's armie hes obtained a 
■great victory;' and then delyvers the letter. 
The General!, upon the hearing of this, knocked 
: upon his breast, and sayes, ' 1 would to God I 
' had died upon the place ! ' and then opens the 
j letter, which, in a few lines, gave ane account 
of the victory, and in the close pressed his 



6.3 o 



A PPENDIX. 



speedy returne to the armie, whicli he did the 
nsxt day, being accompanyedsoiiie mylles back 
by tliis gentleman, who then takes his leave of 
him, and receaved at parting many expressions 
of kyndenesse, with promises that he would 
never be unniyndful of his care and respect to- 
wards him ; and in the end he entreats him to 
piesent his service to all his friends and ac- 
quaintances in Scotland. Thereftir tin Generall 
«ct9 forward in his journey for the armie, 

n order to his transportatione for Scotland, 
^•here he arryved sex dayes eftir the fight of 
Mestoune Muir, and gave the first true account 
and descriptione of that great battell, wherein 
the Covenanters then gloryeu see mucli, that 
they impiously boasted the Lord had now 
signally appeared for his cause and people ; it 
being ordinary for them, dureing the whole 
time uf this warre, to attribute the greatness of 
their success to the goodness and justice of 
ther cause, untill Divine Justice trysted them 
with some crosse dispensatione, and then you 
might have heard this language from them, 
'That it pleases the Lord to give his oune tlie 
heaviest end of the tree to bear, that the saints 
and the people of God must still be sufferers 
while they aie here away, that the malignant 
party was God's rod to punish them for tiier 
unthankfullnesse, which in the end he will cast 
into the fire ; ' with a thousand other expres- 
sions and scripture citations, prophanely and 
blasphemously uttered by them, to palliate ther 
villainie and rebellion." — Memoires of the 
Somervilles. — Edin. 1815. 

Note 7. 

Wiih 7.U ia-'o'd horie,/r£^h tid:;i;;s say. 
Stout Cromwell kas redeem' d the day — P 185 
Cromwell, with his regiment of cuirassiers, 
had a principal share in turning the fate of the 
day at Marston Moor ; which was equally mat- 
ter of triumph to the Independents, and of 
grief and heart-burning to the Presbyterians 
and to the Scottish. 

Note 8, 
Da not my native dales prolong, 
0/ Percy Rede, t'le tragic song, 
Train^ d forward to h,s bloody fall. 
By Girsonfleld, thai treacherous Hall ? 

— P. 185. 
In a poem, entitled, " The Lay of the Reed- 
water Minstrel,!' Newcastle, 1S09, this tale, 
with many others peculiar to the valley of the 
Reed, is commemorated : — " The particulars of 
the traditional story of Parcy Reed of Trough- 
end, and the Halls of Girsonfield, the author 
had from a descendant of the family of Reed. 
From ivis account, it appears that Percival 
Reed, Esquire, a keeper of Reedsdale, was be- 
trayed by the Halls (hence denominated the 
talse-hearted Halls) to a band of moss-troopers 



of the name of Crosier, who slew him at 
Batinghoj^e, near the source of the Rccd. 

" The Halls were, after the murder uf Parcy 
Reed, held in such universal abhorrence and 
conteniDt by the inhabitants of Reedsdale, for 
thei' cowardly and treacherous behavior, that 
they were obliged to leave the country." In 
another passage, we are infoimed that the 
ghost of the injured Borderer is supposed to 
haunt the banks of a biuuK called the Prii." 
j gle. These Reeds of Troughend were a ver* 
I ancient family, as may be conjectured from 
: their deriving their surname from the river oil 
which they had their mansion. An epitaph on 
one of their tombs afifirms that the family held 
their lands of Troughend, which are situated oc 
the Reed, nearly opposite to Otterburn, for th< 
incredible space of nine hundred years. 

Note 9. 

A nd near the spot that gave me name, 
The moated mound of Risuigham, 
Where Reed upo/i lier margin sees 
Sweet Woodbur lie's cottages and trees. 
Some ancient sculptor^ s art has shown 
A 71 outlaw's image 07i the stone. — P. 1S5. 
Risingham, upon the river Reed, near the 
beautiful hamlet of Woodburn, is an ancient 
Roman station, formerly called Habitancum. 
Camden says, that in his time the popular a 5- 
count bore, that it had been the abode of a 
deity, or giant, called Magon ; and appeals, hi 
support of this tradition, as well as to the ety- 
mology of Risingham, or Reisenham, which 
signifies, in German, the habitation of th»». 
giants, to two Roman altars taken out of tho 
river, inscribed, Deo Mogonti Cadenorum. 
About half a mile distant from Risingham. upon 
an eminence covered with scattered birch-trees, 
and fragments of rock, there is cut upon a large 
rock, in alto relievo, a remarkable figure, called 
Robin of Risingham, or Robin of Reedsdale. 
It pr nts a hunter, with his bow raised in one 
hand, and in the other what seems to be a hare. 
There is a quiver at the back of the figure, and 
he is dressed in a long coat, or kirtle, coming 
down to the knees, and meeting close, with a 
girdle bound round him. Dr. Horseley, who 
... iw all monuments of antiquity with Roman 
eyes, inclines to think this figure a Roman 
archer : and certainly the bow is rather of th« 
ancient size, than of that which was so formid- 
able in the hand of tlie English archers of the 
Middle Ages. But the rudeness of the whole 
figure prevents our founding strongly upon 
mere inacct;;acy of proportion. The popular 
tradition i.s, that it represents a giant, whose 
brother resided at Woodburn, and he himself at 
Risingham. It adds, that they subsisted by 
hunting, and that one of them, finding the 
game become too scarce to support them, 
poisoned his companion, in whose memory the 
monument was engraved. What strange and 
tragic circumstance may be concealed unde* 



ROKEB Y. 



631 



this legend, or whether it is utterly apocryphal, 
it is now impossible to discover. 

Note id. 

Do thou revere 

The statutes 0/ the Bucanier .— V . 185. 

The "statutes of the Bucaniers" were, in 
reality, more equitable than cou:d have been 
expected from the state of society under which 
they liad been formed. They chietiy related, 
a= may readily be conjectured, to the distribu- 
tion and the inheritance of their plunder. 

When the expedition was completed, the fund 
of prize-money acquired was thrown together, 
each party taking his oath that he had retained 
or concealed no part of the common stock, if any 
one transgressed in this important particular, 
the punishment was, his being set ashore on 
some desert key or island, to shift for himself 
as he could. The owners of the vessel had 
then their share assigned for the expenses of 
the outfit. These were generahy old pirates, 
settled at Tobago, Jamaica, St. Domingo, 01 
some other French or English settlement. The 
surgeon's and carpenter's salaries, with the 
price of provisions and ammunition, were also 
defrayed. Then followed the compensation 
due to the maimed and wounded, rated ac- 
cording to the damage they had sustained ; 
as six hundred pieces of eight, or six slaves, 
for the loss of an arm or leg, and so in pro- 
portion. 

" After this act of justice and humanity, the 
remainder of the booty was divided into as 
many shares as there were Buccaneers. The 
commander could only Jay claim to a single 
share, as the rest ; but they complimented him 
with two or three in proportion as he had ac- 
quitted himself to their satisfaction. When the 
vessel was not the property of the whole com- 
pany, the persons who had fitted it out, and 
furnished it with necessary arms and ammuni- 
tion, were entitled to a third of all the prizes. 
Favor had never any influence in the division 
of the booty, for every share was determined 
by lot. Instances of such rigid justice as this 
are not easily met with, and they extended 
even to the dead. Their share was given to 
the man who was known to be their companion 
when alive, and therefore their helr._ If the 

1)erson who had been killed had no intimate, 
lis part was sent to his relations, when they 
were known. If there were no friends nor 
relations, it was distributed in charity to the 
poor and to churches, which were to pray for 
?he person in whose name these benefactions 
were given, the fruits of inhuman, but neces- 
eary piratical plunder." — Rvnal's History 
of European Settlements in the East a7id 
IVest Indies, by Jusiamond' Lond. 177^ Svo., 
tii. p. 41. 



Note ii. 

The coiirse 0/ Tees.—V. x8S. 

The view from Barnard Castle commands 
the rich and magnificent valley of Tees. Im- 
mediately adjacent to the river, the banks 
are very thickly wooded ; at a little distance 
they are more open and cultivated ; but, being 
interspersed with hedge-rows, and with iso- 
lated trees of great size and age, they still re- 
tain the richness of woodland scenery. The 
river itself flows in a deep trench of solid 
rock, chiefly limestone and marble. The finest 
view of its romantic course is from a handsome 
modern-built brid--re over the Tees, by the late 
Mr, Morritt of Rokeby. In Leland's time, 
the marble quarries seem to have been c£ 
some value. " Hard under the c.itf by Eglis- 
ton, is found on eche side of Tese very fair 
marble, wont to be taken up booth by mai- 
belers 01 Barnardes Castelle and of Egliston, 
and partly to have been wrought by them, 
and partly sold onvvrought to others." — Itiner' 
ary. Oxford, 1768, 8vo., p. 88. 

Note 12. 
Eglisto7i's gray ruins. — P. iSg. 
The ruins of this abbey, or priory, (for Tan- 
, ner calls it the form.-r, and Leland the latter,) 
j are beautikilly situated upon the angle forrned 
I by a little dell called Thorsgill, at its junction 
with the Tees. 

Note 13. 

the mound, 

Raised by that Legion long renowned. 
Whose votive sJirine asserts their claiiH, 
Of pious, f aithful, conqttering fame. 

—P. 1S9. 
Close behind the George Inn at Greta Bridge, 
there is a well preserved Romait encampment, 
surrounded with a triple ditch, lying between 
the river Greta and a brook called the Tutta. 
The four entrances are easily to be discerned. 
Very many Roman altars and monuments 
have been found in the vicinity, most of which 
are preserved at Rokeby by my friend Mr^ 
Morritt. 

Note 14. 

Rokeby' s turrets high. — P. 1 89. 

This ancient manor long gave name to a 
family by whom it is said to have been pos- 
sessed from the Conquest downward, and who 
are at different times distinguished in history. 
It was the Baron of Rokeby who finally de- 
feated the insurrection of the Earl of North- 
umberland, tempore Hen. IV. The Rokeby, 
or Rokesby, family continued to be distin- 
guished until the great Civil War, when, hav- 
ing embraced the cause of Charles I., they suf- 
fered severely by fines and confiscations. The 
estate then passed from its ancient possessors 
to the family of the Robinsons, from whom if 



63: 



APPENDIX 



was purchased by the father of my valued friend, 
tlie present proprietor. 

Note 15. 
A sti^rn and lone; yet lovely read, 
As e'er the foot 0/ LIhistrel irode. 

—P. 189. 
Wiiat follows is an attemi>t to describe the 
romantic gien, or rather ravine, througli which 
the Greta finds a passage between Rokeby and 
Morthani ; tiie former situated upon tiie left 
bank of Greta, the latter on the right bank, 
about half a mile nearer to its junction with the 
Tees. 

Note 16, 

tell 

• * * # * 

Haiv whistle rash bids iemj>esis roar. 

— P. 190. 
That this is a general superstition is well 
known to all who have been on siiip-board. or 
who liave conversed with seamen, 'i'he most 
formidable whistler that I remember to liave 
met with was the apparition of a certain Mrs. 
Leakey, who, about 1636, resided, we are told, 
at Mynehead, in Somerset, wiiere her only 
son drove a considerable trade between that 
port and Waterford, and was owner of several 
vessels. This old gentlewoman was of a social 
disposition, and so acceptable to her friends, 
that they used to say to her and to each other, 
it were a pity such an excellent good-natured 
o d lady should die ; to whicli she was wont to 
reply, that whatever pleasure they might find 
in her company just now, they would not greatly 
like to see or converse with her after death, which 
nevertheless she was apt to think might hap- 
pen. Accordingly, after her death and funeral, 
she began to appear to various persons by night 
and by noond£-\^, in her own house, in the town 
and fields, at sea and upon shore. So far had 
she departed from her former urbanity, tliat 
she is recorded to have kicked a doctor of 
medicine for his impolite negligence in omit- 
ting to hand her over a stile. It was also her 
humor to appear upon the quay, and call for 
a boat. But especially as soon as any of her 
son's ships approached the harbor, " this 
gliost would appear in the same garb and like- 
ness as when she was alive, and, standing at 
the mainmast, would blow with a whistle, and 
though it were never so great a calm, yet im- 
mediately there would arise a most dreadful 
storm, that would break, wreck, and drown 
ship and goods." When she liad thus pro- 
ceeded until her son had neither cash tt) 
freight a vessel, nor could liave procured men 
to sail in it, she began to attack the persons of 
his family, and actually strangled their only 
child _ in the cradle. The rest of her story, 
showing how the sceptre looked over the 
shoulder of her daughter-in-law, while dress- 
ing lier hair in the looking-glass, and h.ow Mrs. 
LiCakey the younger took courage to address 



her, and how the beldame despatched her to 
an Irish prelate, famous for his crimes and mis- 
fortunes, to exhort him to repentance, and to 
apprize him that otherwise he won d be iianged, 
and how the bishop was satisfied with replying 
that if he was born to be hanged, he should 
not be drowned ; — all these, with many more 
particulars, may be found at the end of one of 
John Dunton's publications, called Athenian- 
ism, London, 1710, where the tale is engrossed 
under the tUie of The Apparition Evidence. 

Note 17. 

0/ Erich's cap and Ehud's light. — P. iqo. 

*' This Ericus, King of Sweden, in his time 
was held second to none in the magical art ; 
and he was so familiar with the evil spirits, 
which he exceedingly adored, that which way 
soever he turned his cap, the wind woMid pres' 
ently b^ow that way. From tliis occasion lie 
w:is called Windy Cap ; and many men be" 
lieved that Regnerus, King of Denmark, by 
th.e conduct of this Ericus, who was his nephew^ 
did happily extend his piracy into the most re- 
mote parts of the eaith, and conquered m.any 
countries and fenced cities by his cunning, and 
at last was his co.idjutor ; that by the consent 
of the nobles, he should be chosen King of 
Sweden, which continued a long time with him 
very hapily, until he died of old age." — Glaus, 
ut supra, p . 40. 

Note 18. 

The Demon/rigate. — P. 190. 

This is an allusion to a well-known nautical 
superstition concerning a fantastic vessel, called 
by sailors the Flying Dutchman, and supposed 
to be seen about the latitude of the Cape of 
Good Hope. Slie is distinguished from earthly 
vessels by bearing a press of sail when all 
otliers a;e unable, fiom stress of weather, to 
show an inch of canvas. The cause of her 
wandering: is not altogether certain ; but the 
general account is, that she was originally a 
vessel loaded with great wealth, on board of 
which some horrid act of murder and piracy 
had been committed ; that the plague broke 
out among the wicked crew who had perpe- 
trated the crime, and that they sailed in vain 
from port to port, offering, as the price of 
shelter, the whole of their ill-gotten wealth ; 
that they were excluded from every harbor, 
for fear of the contagion which was devouring 
them ; and that, as a punishment of their 
crimes, the apparition of the ship still con- 
tinues to haunt those seas in which the catas- 
trophe took place, and is considered by the 
mariners as the worst of all possible omens. 

Note 19. 

by sotne desert isle or key. — ?• loi. 

Wiiat contributed much to the security of the 
Buccaneers about the Windward islands, v.'as tha 



ROKEBY. 



^2>% 



^seat number of little islets, called in that 
country keys. These are small sandy patches, 
appearing just above the surface of the ocean, 
covered oniy with a few bushes and weeds, but 
sometiiTies affording springs of water, and, in 
general, much frequented by turtle. Such little 
uninhabited spots afforded the pirates good 
liarbors, either for retitting or for tiie purpose 
of ambush ; they were occasionally the hiding- 
place of their treasure, and often afforded a 
shelter to themselves. As many of the atroci- 
ties which they practised on their prisoners were 
committed in such spots, there are snme of these 
keys which even now' have an indifferent repu- 
tation among seamen, and where they are with 
difficulty prevailed on to remain ashore at night, 
on account of the visionary tenors incident to 
places which have been thus contaminated. 

Note 20. 
Be/ore the gate of Morthavt stood. — P. 191. 

The castle of Mortham, which Leland terms 
'* Mr. Rokesby's Place, in ripa citer., scant a 
quarter of a mile from Greta Bridge, and not a 
quarter of a mile beneath into Tees," is a pic- 
turesque tower, surrounded by buildings of 
different ages, now converted into a farm-house 
and offices. 

The situation is eminently beautiful, occupy- 
ing a high bank, at the bottom of which the 
Greta winds out of the dark, narrow, and ro- 
mantic dell, which the text has attempted to 
describe, and flows onward through a more open 
valley to meet the Tees about a quarter of a 
mile from the castle. Mortham is surrounded 
by old trees, happily and widely grouped \/ith 
Mr. Morritt's new plantations. 

Note 21. 

There dig^ and tomb your precimts Jieap, 
A nd bid the dead your treasure keep. 

—P. 192. 

If time did not permit the Buccaneers to lavish 
away their plunder in their usual debaucheries, 
they were wont to hide it, with many supersti- 
. tious solemnities, in the desert islands and keys 
which they frequented, and where much treas- 
ure, whose lawless owners perished without 
reclaiming it, is still supposed to be concealed. 
The most cruel of mankind are often the most 
superstitious ; and these pirates are said to have 
had recourse to a horrid ritual, in order to se- 
cure an unearthly guardian to their treasures. 
They killed a negro or Spaniard, and buried 
him with the treasure, believing that his spirit 
would haunt the spot, and terrify away all in- 
truders. I cannot produce any other authority 
on whicli this custom is ascribed to them than 
that of maritime tradition, which is, however, 
amply suS&cient for the purposes of poetry. 



Note 22. 
TJie potver * # » 

* Hf * * * 

That unsubdued and lurking lies 
To take the felon by surprise, 
A nd force him, as by magic spell. 
In his desj>ite his guilt to tell. —'P. 192. 

All wlio are conversant with the administran 
tion of criminal justice, must remember many 
occasions in which malefactors appear to have 
conducted themselves with a specico of infatust" 
tion, either by making unnecessary coniidenf.eu 
respecting their guilt, or by sudden and in» 
voluntary allusions to circumstances by which 
it could not fail to be exposed. A remarkable 
instance occurred in the celebrated case of 
Eugejie Aram. A skeleton being found near 
Knaresborougii, was supposed, by the persons 
who gathered around the spot, to be the re- 
mains of one Clarke, who had disappeared 
some years before, under circumstances leading 
to a suspicion of his having been murdered. 
One Houseman, who had mingled in the crowd, 
suddenly said, while looking at the skeleton, 
and hearing the opinion which was buzzed 
around, " That is no more Dan Clarke's bone 
than itismine! " — asentimentexpressedso pos- 
itively, and with such peculiarity of matiner, as 
to lead all who heard him to infer that he must 
necessarily know where the real body had been 
interred. Accordingly, being apprehended, he 
confessed having assisted Eugene Aram to 
murder Clarke, and to hide his body in Saint 
Robert's Cave. It happened to the author 
himself, while conversing with a person accused 
of an atrocious crime, for the purpose of render- 
ing him professional assistance upon his trial, to 
hear the prisoner, after the most solemn and 
reiterated protestations that he was guiltless, 
suddenly, and, as it were, involuntarily, in tiie 
course of his communications, make such an 
admission as was altogether incompatible with 
innocence. 

Note 23. 

Brackenbitry'' s dismal tower. — P. 194. 

Thii tower has been already mentioned. It 
is situated near the north-eastern extremity of 
the wall which encloses Barnard Castle, and is 
traditionally said to have been the prison. By 
an odd coincidence, it bears a name which we 
naturally connect with imprisonment, from its 
being that of Sir Robert Brackenbury, lieuten- 
ant of the Tower of London under Edward IV. 
and Richard III. • 

Note 24. 

Nobles and knights, so proud of late. 

Must fine for freedo7n and estate. 

***** 

Right heavy shalThis ransom be. 
Unless that 77iaid compound with thee. 

-P. 195. 

After the battle of Marston Moor, tlie Earl 

of Newcastle retired beyond sea in disgust, and 



634 



APPENDIX, 



many of his followers laid down their arms, and 
made the best composition they could with the 
Committees of Parliament. Fines were im- 
posed upon them in proportion to their estates 
und degrees of delinquency, and these fines 
Were often bestowed upon such persons as had 
deserved well of the Commons. In some cir- 
cumstances it happened, that the oppressed 
cavaliers were fain to form family alliances 
Cvith some powerful person among the triumph- 
ant party. 

Note 25. 
The Indian, prowling /or his prey, 
Who hears the settlers track his way. 

The patience, abstinence, and ingenuity ex- 
erted by the North-American Indians, when in 
lursuit of plunder or vengeance, is the most 
distinguished feature in their character ; and 
the activity and address which they display in 
their retreat is equally surprising. 

Note 26. 
In Redesdale his yoidh had heard, 
Each art her wily dalesmen dared, 
When Rooke7t-edge, and Redswair high, 
To bugle rung and bloodhetmd' s cry. 

* -P. 195- 

" What manner of cattle-stealers they are tnat 
inhabit these valleys in the marches of both 
kingdoms, John Lesley, a Scotche man himself, 
and Bishop of Ross, will inform you. They 
sally out of their own borders in the night, in 
troops, through unfrequented by-ways and 
many intricate windings. All the day-time 
they refresh themselves and their horses in 
lurking holes they had pitched upon before, 
till they arrive in the dark in those places they 
have a design upon. As soon as ihey have 
seized upon the booty, they, ixi like manner, 
return home in the night, through blind ways, 
and fetching many a comiiass. The more skil- 
ful any captain is to pass through those wild 
deserts, crooked turnings, and deep precipices, 
in the thickest mists, his reputation is the 
greater, and he is looked upon as a man of an 
excellent head. And they are so very cunning, 
that they seldom have their booty taken from 
them, unless sometimes when, by the help of 
blood-hounds following them exactly upon the 
track, they may chance to fall into the hands of 
their adversaries. When being taken, they 
have so much persuasive eloquence, and so 
many smooth insinuating ^ords at command, 
that if they do not move their judges, nay, and 
even their adversaries (notwitiistanding the 
severity of their natures), to have mercj', yet 
they incite them to admiration and compas- 
sion." — Camden's Brita7inia. 

The inhabitants of the valleys of Tyne and 
Reed were, in ancient times, so inordinately 
addicted to these depredations, that in 1564, 
the Incorporated Merchant-adventurers of 
Newcastle made a law that none born in these 



districts should be admitted apprentice. Tho 
inhabitants are stated to be so generally addicted 
to rapine, that no faith should be reposed in 
those proceeding from " such lewde and wicked 
progenitors." This regulation continued to 
stand unrepealed until 1771. A beggar, in an 
old play, describes himself as " born m Redes- 
dale, in Northumberland, and conie of a wight- 
riding surname, called the Robsons, good honect 
men and true, sailing a little shifting/or their 
living, God help them ! " — a description which 
would have applied to most Borderers on both 
sides. 

Reidswair, famed for a skirmish to which it 
gives name, [see Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii. p. 
15,] is on the very edge of the Carter fell, which 
divides England from Scotland. The Rooken 
is a place upon Reedwater. Bertram, being 
described as a native of these dale?, where the 
habits of hostile depredation long survived the 
union of the crowns, may have been, in some 
degree, prepared by education for the exercise 
of a similar trade in the wars of the Buccaneers. 

Note 27. 

Hiding his /ace, lest/oemen spy, 

The sparkle 0/ his swarthy eye. — P. 196. 

After one of the recent battles, in which the 
Irish rebels were defeated, one of their most 
active leaders was found in a bog, in which he 
was immersed up to the shoulders, while his 
head was concealed by an impending ledge of 
turf. Being detected and seized, notwithstand- 
ing his precaution, he became solicitous to know 
how his retreat had been discovered. " I 
caught," answered the Sutherland Highlander, 
by whom he was taken, " the sparkle of your 
eye." Those who are accustomed to mark 
hares upon their form usually discover them by 
the same circumstance. 

Note 28. 
Here stood a wretch, prepared to change 
His souC s redemption/or revenge. — P. 197. 
It is agreed by all the writers upon magic 
and witchcraft, that revenge was the most com- 
mon motive for the pretended compact between 
Satan and his vassals. 

Note 29. 
0/ my tnaratiding on the clowns. 
0/ Calverley and Brad/ord downs. 

-P. 197. 
The troops of the King, when they first took 
the field, were as well disciplined as could be 
expected from circumstances. But as the cir- 
cumstances of Charles became less favorable, 
and his funds for regularly paying his forces 
decreased, !iabits of military license prevailed 
among them in greater excess. Lacy the 
):)!ayer, who served his master during the Civil 
War, brought out, after the Restoration, a piece 
called The Old Troop, in which he seems ta 



KOKEDY. 



635 



have commemorated some real incidents which 
occurred in his military career. The names of 
the officers of the Troop sufficiently express 
their habits. We have Fleatlint Plunder- 
master-General, Captain Ferret - farm, and 
Quarter-master Burn-drop. The officers of 
the Troop are in league with these worthies, 
and connive at their plundering the country for 
a suitable share in the booty. All this was 
undoubtedly drav/n from the life, which Lacy 
had an opportunity to study. The moral of the 
■whole is comprehended in a rebuke given to the 
lieutenant, whose disorders in the country are 
said to prejudice the King's cause more than 
his courage in the field could recompense. The 
;3iece is by no means void of farcical humor. 

Note 30. 
- — Brignall s woods, and ScargilV s, nvave., 
E^en tiow, o'er viany a sister cave. — P. 19S. 
The banks of the Greta, be]ow Rutherford 
Bridge, abound in seams of grayish slate, which 
are wrought in some places to a very great 
depth, under ground, thus formmg artificial 
caverns, which, when the seam has been ex 
t)austed,are gradually hidden by the underwood 
which grows in profusion upon the romantic 
banks of the river. In times of public con- 
fusion, they might be well adapted to the pur- 
|30ses of banditti 

Note 31. 
When i>paii'. wag ^d warfare with our land. 

— P 200. 
There wdb & ahorf war with Spain in -,625-6, 
Vvhich will be found "o agree pretty well with 
the chronology of the po^^m. But probably 
Bertram held an opinion very common among 
the maritime heroes of the age, that, " there 
was no peace beyond the Line.'' The Spanish 
gttarda-cosias were constantly employed in 
aggressions upon the trade and settlements of 
the English and French ; and, by their own 
severities, gave loom for the system of Bucca- 
neering, at first adopted in self-defence and re- 
taliation, and afterwards persevered in from 
habit and thirst of plunder. 

Note 32. 
<«=— our C02nrades'' strije. — P. 200. 

The laws of the Buccaneers, and their succes- 
sors the Pirates, however severe and equitable, 
were, like other laws, often set aside by the 
stronger party. Their quarrels about the divi- 
sion of the spoil fill their history, and they as 
frequently arose out of mere frolic, or the t)'- 
rannical humor of their chiefs. An anecdote 
of Teach (called Blackbeard), shows that their 
habitual indifference for human life extended to 
their companions, as well as their enemies and 
captives. 

" One nighty drinking in his cabin with 
^arjds, \\\% pilot, and another man, Black- 



beard, without any provocation, privately draws 
out a small pair of pistols, and cocks them 
under tha table, which being perceived by the 
man, he withdrew upon deck, leaving Hands, 
the pilot, and the captain together. When the 
pistols were ready, he blew out the candles, 
and, crossing his hands, discharged them at his 
company. Hands, the master, was shot through 
the knee, and lamed for life : the other pistol 
did no execution." — John-son's History oj ^ 
Pirates. Lond. 1733, 8vo., vol. i. p. 38. 

Note 33. 

Song. — A die II for evermore.— P. 202. 

The last verse of this song is taken from the 
fragment of an old Scottish ballad, of which 
I only recollected two verses when the first 
edition of Rokeby was published. Mr. Thomas 
Sheridan kindly pointed out to me an entire 
copy of this beautiful song, which seems to ex- 
press the fortunes of some followers of the 
Stuart family • — 

" It was a' for our rightful king 
That we left fair Scotland's strand, 
It was a' for our rightful king 
That we e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear, 
That we e'er saw Irish land. 

*' Now all is done that man can do 
And all is done in vain ' 
My love ! my native land, adieu! 
For I must cross the main. 

My dear, 
For I must cross the main. 

*• He turned him round and right about, 
All on the Irish shore. 
Re gave his bridle-reins a shake, 
With, Adieu for evermore, 

My dear J 
Adieu for evermore ! 

*' The soldier frae the war returns, 
And the merchant frae the main, 
But I hae parted wi' my love, 
And ne'er to meet again. 

My dear, 
And ne'er to meet again. 

" When day is gone and night is comet- 
And a' are boun' to sleep, 
I think on them that's far awa' 
The ke-lang night, and weep, • 

My dear, 
The iee-lang night, and'weep." 

> Note 34. 

Jiere-cross on Stanmore. —P. 202. 
This is a fragment of an old cross, with its 
pediment, surrounded by an intrenchment, upon 
the verv summit of the waste ridge of Stan- 
more, near a small house of entertainment. The 
situation of the cross, and the pains taken to 



636 



APPENDIX. 



defend it, seem to indicate that it was intended 
for a land-mark of importance. 

Note 35. 

Hast thou lodged our deer ? — P. 202. 

The duty of the ranger, or pricker, was first 
to lodge or harbor the deet ; /. e., to discover 
his retreat, and then to make his report to his 
prince or master. 

Note 36. 

When Denmark' s raven soar'd on high. 
Triumphant ihroiigh Northjanbrian sky. 
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak 
Bade Regea's Britons dread the yoke. 

—P. 203. 

About the year of God 866, the Danes, under 
their celebrated leaders Inguar (more properly 
Agnar), and Hubba, sons, it is said, of the still 
more celebrated Regnar Lodbrog, invaded 
Northumberland, brniging with them the mag- 
ical standaid, so often mentioned in poetry, i 
called Reafen, or Rumfan, from its bearing 
th ■ figure of a raven ; — 

*' Wrought by tha sisters of the Danish king, 
Of furious Tvar in a midnight hour: 
While the sick moon at their enchanted song 
Wrapt in pale tempest, labor'd thiough the 

cUuds, 
The demons of destruction then they sa;'. 
Were all abroad, and mixing with the woof 
Their bakful power: The sisters ever sung, 
' Shake, standard, shake this ruin on our 

foes.' " 

Thomson and Mallet's Alfred. 

The Danes renewed and extended their in- 
cursions, and began to colonize, establishing a 
kind of capital at York, from which they spread 
their conquests and incursions in every direc- 
Jion. Stanmore, which divides the mountains 
of Westmoreland and Cumberland, was proba- 
bly ih.; boundary of the Danish kingdom in 
that direction. The district to the west, known 
m ancient British history by the name of 
Reged, bnd never been conquered by the 
Saxons, and continued to maintain a precarious 
independence until it was ceded to Malcolm, 
King of Sects, by William the Conquc:ror, prob- 
ably on account of its similarity in language 
and manners to the neighboring British king- 
dom of Strath-Clyde. 

(Tnnn the extent and duration of the Danish 
sovereignty in Northumberland, the curious 
may consult the various authorities ouoted in 
the Gesta eil'estigia Danornm extra Daniam^ 
torn. ii. p. 40. The most powerful of their 
Northumbrian leaders seem to have been 
Ivar, called, from the extent of his conquests, 
IVid/am, that is, The Strider. 



Note 37. 

Beneath the shade tJie Northmen came, 
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name. — P. 203. 

The heathen Danes have left several traces 
of their religion in the upper part of Teesdale. 
Balder-garth, which derives its name from the 
unfortunate son of Odin, is a tract of waste 
land, on the very ridge of Stanmore ; and a 
brook, which falls into the Tees near Barnard 
Castle, is named after the same deity. A field 
upon the banks of the Tees is also termed 
Wooden-Croft, from the supreme deity of the 
Edda. 

Note 38. 
IVJio has not heard how brave O' Neale 
In English blood im.br ued his steel ? — P 204. 
The O' Neale here meant, for more than one 
succeeded to the chieftainship during the reign 
of Elizabeth, was Hugh, the grandson of Con 
O' Neale. called Con Bacco, or the Lame. His 
f-ther, Matthew O' Kelly, was illegitimate, and, 
being the son of a blacksmith's wife, was 
usually called Matthew the Blacksmith. His 
father, nevertheless, destined his succession to 
him ; and he was created, by Elizabeth, Baron 
of Dungannon Upon the death of Con Bacco, 
this Matthew was slam by his brother Hugh 
narrowly escaped the same fate, and was pro- 
tected by the English. Shane O'Neale, hia 
uncle, called Shane Dymas, was succeeded hy 
Turlough Lynogli O'Neale ; after whose death 
Hugh, having assumed the chieftainship, be- 
came nearly as fovmid.b^u to the English a» 
any by whom it had been possessed. He re^ 
balled r?pea;pdiy, and as often m.ide submis- 
sions, of which it was usually 3 condition that 
he should not any longer assume the title of 
O'Neale ; in lieu of which be was created Earl 
of Tyrone. But this condition he never ob- 
served longer than until the pressure of superior 
force was withdrawn. His baffling the gallant 
Earl of Essex in the field, and over-reaching 
him in a treaty, was the induction to that noble- 
man's tragedy. Lord Mountjoy succeeded in 
finally subjugating O'Neale ; but it was not till 
the succession of James, to whom he made 
personal submission, and was received with 
civility at court. 

Note 39. 
Bid chief arose his victor pr id 
When that brave Marshal /ought and died. 
—P. 204. 

The chief victory which Tyrone obtained 
over the English was in a battle fought near 
Blackwater, while he besieged a /ort garrisoned 
by the English, which commanded the passes 
into his country. 

Tyrone is said to have entertained a per- 
sonal animosity against the knight-marshal. Sir 
Henry Bagnal, whom he accused of detaining 
the letters which he sent to Queen Elizabeth, 



ROKEBY. 



637 



explanatory of his conduct, and offering terms 
of submission. The river, called by the Eng- 
Zish, Blackwater, is termed in Irish, Avon-Duff, 
which has the same signification. Both names 
are mentioned by Spenser in his " Marriage of 
the Thames and the Medway." But I under- 
stand that his verses reiate not to the Black- 
water of Ulster, but to a river of the same name 
in the south of Ireland : — 

" Swift Avon-Duff, which of the Englishmen 
Is called Blackwater." 

Note 40. 
The Tanist he to great O'N^eaie.—V. 204. 

" Eiidox. What is that which you call Tanit.t 
and Tanistry ? These be names and terms never 
heard of r.or known to us. 

" Ireii. It is a custom amongst all the Irish, 
that presently after the death of one of their 
chiefe lords or captaines, they doe presently 
assemble themselves to a place generally ap- 
ponited and knowne unto them, to choose 
another in his stead, where they do nominate 
and elect, for the most part not the eldest sonne, 
nor any of the children of the lord deceased, 
but the next to him m blood, that is, the e.dest 
and worthiest, as commonly the next brother 
unto him, if he have any, or the next cousin, or 
so forth, as any is elder in that kindied ■?•( sept ; 
and then next to them doe they choose ihe next 
of the blood to be Taiyst, who cha.i next sac- 
ceed hnn in the said captainry, if he liv.; tf.cie- 
unto. 

*' Eiidox. Do they not use any ceremony in 
this election, for all barbarous nat.oas are com- 
monly great observers of cereiuo;:iesa'.;d super- 
stitious ntes ? 

" Iren. They use to place him that shall be 
their captaine upon a stone, always reserved to 
that purpose, and placed commonly upo.: a h.ll. 
In some of which I have seen formed and en- 
graven a foot, which they say was the measure 
of their first captaine's foot ; whereon hee stand- 
ing, receives an oath to preserve all the ancient 
former customes of the ccuntrey inviolable, and 
to deliver up the succession peaceably to his 
Tanist, and then hath a wand delivered unto 
him by some whose proper office that is ; after 
which, descending from the stone, he turneth* 
himself round, thrice forwards and thrice back- 
wards. 

'* Eitdox. But how is the Tanist chosen ? 

" Iren. They say he setteth but one foot 
upon the stone, and receiveth the like oath that 
the captaine did." — Spenser's View of the 
State of Ireland, apud Works, Lond. 1805, 
Svu., vol. viii. p. 306. 

The Tanist, therefore, of O'Neale, was the 
heir-apparent of his power. This kind, of suc- 
cession appears also to have regulated, in very 
remote times, the succession to the crown of 
Scotland. It would have been ..mprudent, if 
not impossible, to have asserted a minor's right : 
oi succession in those stornjy days, when the 



principles of policy were summed up in ray 
friend Mr. Wordsworth's lines : — 

'■ the good old rule 

Sufiiceth them ; the simple plan. 
That they should take who have the power, 
And they should keep who can." 

Note 41. 

Wiili wild majestic port and tone', 

Like envoy of some barbarous throne.-~--'P. 204. 

The Irish chiefs, in th.eir intercourse with the 
English, and with each other, were wont to 
assume the language and style of independent 
royalty. 

Note 42. 

His/oster-fatJier was his guide. — P. 205. 

There was no tie more sacred among the 
Irish than that which connected the foster- 
father, as well as the nurse herself, with the 
child they brought up. 

Note 43. , 

Great Nialofthe Pledges Ni7ie. — P. 206. 

Neal Naighvallach, or Of the Nine Hostages, 

■ s sa d to have been Monarch of all Ireland 

during the end of the fourth or beginning of the 

tilth century. He exercised a predatory war- 

lare on the coast of England and of Bretagne, 

or Armonca ; and from the latter country 

I Drought off the celebrated Saint Patrick, a 

youth of sixteen, among other captives, whom 

he transported to Ireland. Neal derived his 

epithet from nine nations, or tribes, whom he 

he'd under his subjection, and from whom h© 

ook hostages. ~^/ 

Note 44. 

Ska7ie-Dy>nas wild. — P. 206. 

Th.s Shane-Dymas, or John the Wanton, 
held the title and power of O'Neale in the 
earlier part of Elizabeth's reign, against whom 
he rebelled repeatedly. 

' This chieftain is handed down to us as the 
most proud and profligate man on earth. He 
was irrmoderately addicted to women and wine. 
He is said to have had 200 tuns of wine at once in 
his cellar at Dandram, but usquebaugh was his 
favorite liquor. He spared neither age r.or 
condition of the fair sex. Altho' so illiterate 
that he could not write, he was not destitute of 
address, his understanding was strong, and his 
courage daring. He had 600 men for his guard; 
<^ooo foot, 1000 horse for the field. He claimed 
superiority over all the lords of Ulster, and 
cal.ed Inmself king thereof " — Camden. 

When reduced to extremity by the English., 
and forsaken by his allies, this Shane-Dymj.s 
fled to Clandeboy, then occupied by a colony 
of Scottish Highlanders cf the family ci Llac- 
Dnnell. He was at first courteously received ; 
but by degrees they began to quarrel abr-ct thS' 
slaughter cf some of their frier.u^jwhom Siu.n?'- 



638 



APPENDIX. 



1 



Dymas had put to death, and.?dvancing from 
words to deeds, fell upon him with their broad- 
swords, and cut him to pieces. After his death 
a law was made that none should presume to 
take the name and title of O Neale. 

Note 45. 

^ Geraldiiie. — P- zo6. 

The O'Neales were closely alhed with this 
powerful and warlike family ; for Henry Owen 
O' Neale married the daughter of Thomas Earl 
of Kildare, and their son Con- More .rarried 
Ins cousin-pernian, a daughter of Gerala Earl of 
Kildare. This Con-lMore cursed any of h;s 
posterity who should learn the Erighsh langjage, 
sow corn, or build liouses, so as to invite tlie 
English to settle in their country. Others 
ascribe this anathema to his son Coo-B cco. 
Fcarfiatha O'Gnive, bard to the O'Neales of 
Clannaboy, complains in the same spiru of the 
towers and ramparts with which the strangers 
had disfigttred 'the fair sporting fields of iirin. 
^See Walker's Irish Bards, p. 140. 

Note 46. 

[ ^' his page, the next degree 

In that old time to chivalry. — P. to&. 
Originally, the order of chivalry embraced 
three ranks — i The Page, 2. The Squire j 
3. The Knight , — a gradation which seems to 
have been imitated in the mystery of free- 
masonry. But, before the reign -of Charles I., 
the custom of serving as a squire had fallen into 
disuse, though the order of the page was stiii, 
to a certain degree, in observance This state 
of servitude was so far from inferring anything 
degrading, that it was considered as the regular 
school for acquiring every quality necessary for 
future distinction. 

' . Note 47. 

) Seemed half abandon'' d to decay, — P. 211. 

The ancient castle of Rokeby stood exactly 
upon the site of the present mansion, by which 
a part of its walls is enclosed. It is sur- 
rounded by a profusion of fine wood, and the 
park in which it stands is adorned by the 
iunction of the Greta and of the Tees. The 
title of Baron Rokeby of Armagh was, in 1777, 
conferred on the Right Reverend Richard 
Robinson, Primate of Ireland, descended of 
the Robinsons, formerly of Rokeby, in York- 
shire. 

Note 48. 

The Felon So-w.—V. 212. 

The ancient minstrels had a comic as well as 
a serious strain of romance ; and although the 
examples of the latter are by far the most 
numerotis, they are, perhaps, the less valuable. 
The comic romance was a sort of parody upon 
the usual subjects of minstrel poetry. If the 
latter described deeds of heroic achievement, 



and the events of the battle, the tourney, and 
the chase, the former, as in the Tournament 
of Tottenham, introduced a set of clowns de- 
bating in the field, with all the assumed cir- 
cumstances of chivalry. One of the very best of 
these mock romances, and which has no small 
portion of comic humor,* is the Hunting of 
the Felon Sov/ ci Rokeby by the Friars of 
Richmond. 

Note 49. 
The Fllea of O' Neale was he.—V. 213. 
The Filea, or Ollamh Re Dan, was the proper 
bard, or, as the name literally implies, poet. 
Each chieftain of distinction had one or more in 
his service, whose office was usually hereditary. 
The late ingenious Mr. Cooper Walker, has as- 
sembled a curious collection of particulars con- 
cerning this order of men, in his Historical 
Memoirs of the Irish Bards. There were 
itinerant bards of less elevaied rank, but all 
were held in the highest veneration. 

Note 50. 

Ah, Clandeboyl thy friendly floor 
Slieve-Do7iard's oak shall light no more. 

—P. 213. 

Clandeboy is a district of Ulster, formerly 
possessed by the sept of the O Neales, and 
Slieve-Donard a romantic ir.ounra'nin the same 
province. The clan was ruined after Tyrone's 
great rebellion, and th«ir p'aces of abode laid 
desolate. The ancient Irish, wild and unculti- 
vated in other respects, did not yieJd even to 
their descendants in practising the most free 
and extended hospitality. 

Note 51. 
On Marwood Chase and Toller Hill.—V.ziz. 
Marwood Chase is the old Park extending 
along the Durham side of the Tees, attached to 
Barnard Castle. Toller Hill is an eminence on 
the Yorkshire side of the river, commanding a 
full view of the ruins. 

Note 52. 

The ancient English tninstrePs dress. 

—P. 214. 

Am.org the entertainments presented to Eliza- 
beth at Kenilworth Castle, was the introduction 
of a person designed to represent a travelling 
minstrel, who entertained her with a solemn 
story out of the Acts of King Arthur. Of this 
person's dress and appearance Mr.Laneham has 
given us a very accurate account, transferred 
by Bishop Percy to the preliminary Dissertation 
on Minstrels, prefixed to The Reliqzies of A tf 
cient Poetry^ vol. 1. 

Note 53. 
Littlecoie Hall.—V. 21S. 
This Ballad is founded on a fact ;— the hor- 
rible murder of an infant by Wild Dayrell, as 



ROKEBY. 



639 



he was called. He gave the house and lands 
as a brihe to the judge (Popham) in order to 
save his life. A {i;w months after Dayrell broke 
his neck by a fall from his horse.— Editor. 

Note 54. 

As thick a smoke these hearths have given 

At H<illowtide, or Christmas-even. 
■ , -P. 219. 

Such an exhortation was, in similar circum- 
stances, aclualiy given to his followers by a 
Welsh chieftain. 

Note 55. 
Cer Hexhajiis altar hung vty glove- — P. 226. 

This custom among the Redesdale and Tyne- 
dale Borderers is mentioned in the interesting 
Life of Barnard Gilpin. 

" It happened that a quarrel of this kind was 
on foot when Mr. Gilpm was at Roihbiiry, in 
those parts. During the two or three first days 
of his preaching, th- contending parties ob- 
served some decorum, and never appeared at 
church together. At lengtli, however, they met. 
One party had been early a? church, and just as 
Mr. Gilpin began his serm n, the other entered. 
They stood not long silent. Inflamed at the 
sight of each other, they begar; to clash their 
weapons, for they wer ■ all aimed with javelins 
.^nd swords, and mutually approached. A.wed, 
nowever, by the sacredness tf the place, the 
tumult in some degree ceased. Mr. Gilpin pro- 
ceeded ; when again the combatants began to 
br^tndi^h their weapons, and draw towards each 
other- As a fray seemed near, Mr. Gilpin 
stepped from the pulpit, went between them, and 
addressed the leaders, pur an end to the quarrel, 
for the present, but could not effect an entire re- 
conciliation. They promised him, how-ever, 
ttut till the sermon was over ihay would make 



no more disturbance. He then went again into 
the pulpit, and spent the rest of the time in en- 
deavoring to make them ashamed of what 
they had done. His behavior and discourse 
affected them so much, that, at his farther en- 
treaty, they promised to forbear all acts or h.os- 
tility while he continued in the country. And 
so much respected was he among them, that 
whoever was in fear of his enemy used to resort 
where Mr. Gilpin v>ras, esteeming his presence 
I the best protection. 

" One Sunday morning, coming to a church in 
those parts, before the people were assembled, 
he observed a glove hanging up, and was in- 
formed by the sexton that it was meant as a 
challenge to any one who should take it down. 
Mr. Gilpin ordered the sexton to reach it to bin; 
but upon his utterly refusing to touch it. he 
took it down himself, and put it into his breast. 
When the people were assembled, he went into 
the pulpit, and, before he concluded his sermon, 
took occasion to rebuke them severely for these 
inhuman challenges. ' 1 hear,' saitli he, ' that 
one among you hath hanged up a glove, even 
in this sacred place, threatening to fight any 
one who taketh u dtwn : see, I have taken it 
down ;' and, pulling out the glove, he held it 
j up to the congregation, and then showed them 
I how unsuitable such savage practices were io 
j the profession of Christianity, using such per- 
i suasives to mutual love as he thought would 
; most affect them."— Z?/> 0/ Barnard Gilpin^ 
Lond. 1753, 8vo., p. :77. 

Note 56. 

i A horseman arm^d, at headlong speed. — P. 229 

j This, and what follows, is taken from a real 

achievement of Major Robert Philipson, called 

from his desperat* and adventurous courage, 

Robin the Devil. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



Note i. 
The Baron of Triertnain, — P. 233. 

Triermain was a fief of the Barony of Gils- 
land in Cumberland ; it was possessed by a 
Saxon family at the time of the Conquest, but, 
•' after the death of Gilmore, Lord of Tryer- 
miine and Torcrossock, Hubert Vaux gave 
Tryermaine and Torcrossock to his second son, 
Ranulph Vaux ; which Ranulph afterwards 
became heir to his elder brother Robert, the 



founder of Lanercost, who died without issue- 
Ranulph, being Lord of all Gilsland,.gave Gil* 
more's lands to his younger son, named Roland, 
and let the Baronv descend to his eldest son 
Robert, son of Ranulph. Ronald had issue 
Alexander, and he Ranulph, after whom suc- 
ceeded Robert, and they were named Rolands 
successively, that were lords thereof, until the 
reign of Edward the Fourth. That house gave 
for arms. Vert, a bend dexter, chequy, or and 
gules." — I^URNs's Afiiiquities of IVestDtorf 
land and Cumberland, vol. ii. p. 482. 



640 



APPENDIX. 



Note 2. 
He pass' d red Penrith's Table Round.— V. 234 
A circular intrenchment, about lialf a mile 
from Penriih, is tluis popularly termed. The 
circle witliiu tlie ditch is about one hundred and 
sixty paces in circumference, with openings, cr 
approaches, dh-ectly opposite to each other. As 
this ditcli is on tlie inner side, it could not be 
intended for the purpose of defence, and it has 
reasonably been conjectured, that the enclosure 
was designed for the solemn exercise of feats of 
chivalry, and the embankment around for the 
convenience of the spectators. 

Note 3. 
Mayhirgh' s mound. — P. 234. 
Higher uji tlie river Eamont than Ar'chur's 
Round Table, is a prodigious enclosure of great 
antiquity, formed by a collection of stones upon 
the top of a gently sloping liiil, called May- 
burgh. In tlie plain wliich it encloses there 
stands erect an unhewn stone of twelve feet in 
height. Two similar masses are said to have 
been destroyed during the memory of man. The 
whole appears to be a monument of Druidical 
times. 

NOTB 4. 

The sable tarn.— V . 235. 

The small lake called Scales-tarn lies so 
deeply-embosomed in the recesses of the huge 
mountain called Saddleback more poetically 
Glaramara, is of such great depth, and so com- 
pletely liidden from ths sun, that it is said its 
beams never reach it, and that the retiectioii of 
the stars may be seen at mid-day. 
Note 5. 

The terrors / Tiniadgel's spear.— "P. 237. 

Tintadgel Castle, in C( rnwaii, is reported to 
have been the birth-piace of King Aithur. 

Note 6. 

Scattering a shower of fiery dew.— V. 239. 

The author has an indistinct recollection of 
an adventure, somewhat similar to that which 
IS here ascnbtd to King Arthur, having be- 
fallen one of the ancient Kings of Denmark. 
The horn m which the burning liquor was pre- 
sented to that Monarch, is said still to be i^re- 
»erved in the Royal Museum at Copenhagen. 

Note 7. 
The Monarch, breathless and amazed^ 
Back on the fatal castle gazed— 
Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, 
Darkening against the morning sky. 

-P. 239- 
—♦'We now gained a view of the Vale of St. 
John's, a very narrow dell, hemmed in by 
mountains, through which a small brook makes 
many meandermgs, washing little enclosures of 
grass-ground, which stretch up the rising of the 



hills. In the widest part of the dale you are 
struck with the appearance of an ancient ruintd 
castle, which seems to stand upon tlie summit 
of a little mount, the mountains around forming 
an amphitheatre. The massive bulwark showb 
a front of various towers, and makes awful, 
rude, and Gothic appearance, with its fty tur- 
rets and rugged battlements ; we traced the 
galleries, the bending arches, the buttresses. 
The greatest antiquity stands characterized in 
Us architecture ; the inhabitants near it asserl 
it is an antediluvian structure. 

The traveller's curiosity is roused, and he 
prepares to make a nearer approach, when that 
curiosity is put upon the rack, by his being 
assured, that, if he advances, certain genii who 
govern the jjlace, by virtue of their super- 
natural art and necromancy, will strip it of all 
its beauties, and by enchantment transform the 
magic walls. The vale seems adapted for the 
habitation of such beings ; its gloomy recesses 
and retirements look like the haunts of evil 
spirits. There was no delusion in ;he report; 
we were soon convinced of its truth ; for this 
piece of antiquity, so venerable and noble in its 
aspect, as we drew near, changed its figure, and 
proved no othe.' than a shaken massive pUe of 
recks, which stand in ihe midst of th.s little 
vale, disunited fri m the adjoining mountains, 
and have so much the real form and resemblance 
of a castle, tha: thry tjea; the name of the 
Castle Rocks of St. jchn."— Hjtchikson's 
Excut sion to ihe Lakes, p. J2i. 

Note 8. 
Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought. 

—P. 240. 
Arthur is said to have defeated the Saxons 
in twelve pAched battles, and to have achieved 
the other feats alluded to in the text. 

Note 9. 
The flower of chivalry. 
There Gnlaad sat with manly gract, 
Vet maiden meekness in his face ; 
There Morolt of tlie iron mace, 
A }id love-lorn Tristrem there* 

—P. 240. 
The characters named in the stanza are all ot 
them more or less distinguished in the romances 
which treat of King Arthur and his Round 
Table, and their names are strung together, ac- 
cording to the established custom of minstrek/ 
upon such occasions, for example, in the ballad' 
of the Marriage of Sir Gawaine. — 

" Sir Lancelot, Sir Stephen bolde, 
They rode with him that daye, 
And foremost of .he companye, 
There rode the stewarde Kaye. 

" Soe did Sir Banier, and Sir Bore, 
And eke Sir Garratte keen, 
Sir Tristrem, too, that gentle knight. 
To the forest fresh and Rreen*.'* 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



64^ 



Note 10. 

Lancelot^ that evermore 

LooW d stoV 7i-wise on the Queen. — P. 240- 

Upon this delicate subject hear Richard Rob- 
inson, citizen of London, in his Assertion of 
King Arthur :— " But as it is a thing sufficieutly 
apparent that she (Guenever, wife of King 
Arthur) was beautiful, so it is a thing doubted 
whether she was chaste, yea or no. Truly, so 
far as I can with honestie, I would spare the 
impayred honour of noble women. But yet the 
truth of the historic pluckes me by the care, 
and wiileth not onely, but commandeth me to 
declare what the ancients have deemed of her. 
To wrestle or contend with so great authoritie 
were indeed unto me a cortroversie, and that 
greate." — Assertion of King Arthur e. Im- 
printed by John Woife, Lnndon, 15S2. 

Note h. 

There xvere two who lozed their neighbor'' % 

wives, 
A nd one who loved his own.— P 24 1 . 

" In our forefathers' tyme, when Papistrie, 
as a standyng poole, covered and overflowed ali 
England, fewe books were read in our tongue, 
savying certaine bookes of chevalrie, as they 
said, for pastime and pleasure ; which, as some 
say, were made in the monasteries, by idle 
monks or wanton chanons. As one, for ex- 
ample, La Morte d'Arthure ; the whole pleas- 
ure of which book standeth in two special 
poyntes, in open manslaughter and bold baw- 
drye ; in which booke they be counted the 



noblest knightes that do kill most men without 
any quarrell, and commit foulest adulteries by 
subtest shiftes ; a^ "-^ir Launcelot, v/ith the wife 
of King Arthur, his master, Sir Tristram, witk 
the wife of King Marke, his uncle ; Sir Lame- 
rocke, with the wife of Kilig Lote, that was h;3 
own aunt. This is good stuff for wise men to 
laugh at ; or iioncst men to take pleasure at: 
yet I know when God's iiible was banished the 
Court, and La Muite d'Aithure received into 
the Prince's chamber." — Ascham's School- 
master. 

Note /2. 
Who won the cup of gold.— ^. 241. 

See the comic tale of the Boy and the Mantle, 
in tli^ thiid volume of Percy's Reliques of 
Ancient Poetry, from the Breton or Norman 
onguial of whicii Aiiosto is supposed to have 
taken his Tale of the Encliauted Cup. 

Note 13. 

IVhose logic is from Single-speech. — P. 244. 

See " Parliamentary Logic, &c ," by the 
Hon. W. G Hamilton (180S), commonly called 
"Single-Speech Hamilton." 

Note to the Poem. 
I Scott composed this poem with the intention 
that the public should attribute it to liis friend 
Mr. Erskine (Lord Kinedder). The joke suc- 
ceeded ; but on the third edition being pub- 
I lished, Lord Kinedder avowed the true author, 
j the deception having gone further than either 
he or Scott intended. We mention this fact in 
Older to explain the preface. — Ed. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



Note i. 
Thy rugged halls, A r tarnish ! rung. — P. 258 

The ruins of the Castle of Artornish are situ- 
Rted upon a promontory, on the Morven, or 
mainland side of the Sound of Mull, a name 
given to the deep arm of the sea, which divides 
that island from the continent. The situation 
is wild and romantic in the highest degree, 
having on the one hand a high and precipitous 
chain of rocks overhanging the sea, and on the 
other the narrow entrance to the beautiful salt- 
water lake, called Loch Alline, which is in many 
places finely fringed with copsewood. The 
ruins of Artornish are not now very consider- 
able, and consist chiefly of the remains of an 



old-keep, or tower, with fragments of outward 
defences. But, in former days, it was a place 
of great consequence, being one of the principal 
strongholds, which the Lords of the Isles, 
during the period of their stormy independence, 
possessed upon the mainland of Argyleshire. It 
is almost opposite to the Bay of Aros, in the 
Island of Mull, where there was another castle, 
the occasional residence of the Lords of tkt 
Isles. 

Note 2. 
Rude Heiskar''s seal through surges dark, 
IV ill long pursue the minstrer s bark. — 

P. 258, 

The seal displays a taste for music, which 

could scarcely be expected from his habits and 

local predilections. They will long follow a boat 



642 



APPENDIX. 



in which any musical instrument is played, and 
even a tune simply whistled has attractions for 
them. The Dean ( f the Isles says of Heiskar, 
a small uninhabited rock, about twelve (Scot- 
tish) miles frcm the Isle cf Uist, that an infinite 
slaughter of seals takes place theie. 

Note 3. 

a turret's airy head^ 
Slender and steep, and battled round. 
Overlook' d, dark MuW. thy migJity Sound- — 
P, 259. 

The Sound cf ?.Iull, which divides that island 
from the continent of Scotland, is Oiie of the 
most striking scenes which the Hebrides afford 
to the traveller. Sailing from Oban to Aros, 
or Tobermory, through a narrow channel, yet 
deep enough to bear vessels of the largest bur- 
den, he has on his left the bo'd and mountainous 
shores of Muil ; on the right those of that dis- 
trictof Argyieshire, called Morven, or IMorvern, 
successively indented by deep salt-water lochs, 
running up many miles iniand. To the south- 
eastward arise a prodigious range of mountains, 
among which Cruachan-Ben is pre-emiminent. 
And to the ncrth-east is the no less huge and 
picturesque range cf the Ardnamurchan hills. 
Many ruinous castles, situated generally upon 
cliffs overhanging the ocean, add inteiest to the 
scene. 

Note 4. 
The heir of mighty Somerled.- P 259. 

Somerled was thane of Argyle and Lord of 
the Isles, about the middle of the twelfth cen- 
tury. He seems to have exercised his authority 
in both capacities, independent of the crown of 
Scotland, against which he often stood in hos- 
tility. He made various incursions upon the 
western lowlands during the reign of Malcolm 
IV., and seems to have made peace with him 
upon the terms of an independent prince, about 
the year 1157. In 1 164, he resumed the war 
against Malcolm, and invaded Scotland with a 
large, but probably a tumultuary army, col- 
lected in the isles, in the mainland of Ai gyle- 
shire, and in the neighboring provinces of 
Ireland. He was defeated and slain in an en- 
gagement with a very inferior force, ni^ar Ren- 
frew. 

Note 5. 
Lord of the Isles. — P. 259. 

The representative of this independent prin- 
cipality, for such it seems to have been, though 
acknowledging occasionally the pre-eminence 
of the Scottish crown, was, at the period of the 
poem, Angus, called Angus Og ; but the name 
has been, euphoniae gratia, exchanged for that 
of Ronald, wiiicii frequently occurs in the 
genealogy. Angus was a protector of Robert 
Bruce, whom he received in his Castic of Dun- 
naverty, during the time of his greatest distress. 



Note 6. 

The House of Lorn. — P. 260. 

The House of Lorn, as we observed in a 
former note, was, like the Lord of the Isles, 
descended from a son of Somerled, slain at Ren- 
frew, in 1 164. This son obtained the succession 
of his mainland territories, cumpre!ieiid:ng the 
greater part of the three districts of Lorn, in 
Argyieshire, and of course might rather be con- 
sidered as^ petty princes than feudal barons. 
They assumed the patronymic appellation of 
MacDougal, by which they are distinguished in 
the history of the Middle Ages- 



I Note 7. 

A waked before the rushing prow^ 
The munic fires of ocean glow, 
Those lighttiings of the wave. — 

P. 262. 

The phenomenon called by sailors Sea-fire, 
is one of the most beautiful and interesting 
which is witnessed in the Hebrides. At times 
the ocean appears entirely illuminated around 
the vessel, and a long train of lambent corus- 
cations are perpetually bursting upon the sides 
of the vessel, or pursuing her wake through the 
darkness. 

Note 8. 
That keen knight, De Argentine - V. 264. 

I Sir Egiduis, or Giles De Argentine, was one 
I of the most accomplished knights cf the period. 
He had served in the wars of Henry of Luxem- 
burg v;ith such high reputation, that he was, in 
popular estimation, the third worthy of the age. 
Those to whom fame assigned precedence over 
him were, Henry of Luxemburg himself, and 
Robert Bruce. Argentine had warred m Pales- 
tine, encountered thrice with the Saracens, and 
had slain two antagonists in each engagement : 
— an easy matter, he said, for one Christian 
knight to slay two Pagan dogs. 

Note 9. 

*' Fill ffie the rnigJity aip .' " he said, 
" Erst ozvn''d by royal Sotnerled." — 

P. 264- 

A Hebridean drinking cup, of the most 
ancient and curious workmanship, has been 
long preserved in the Castle of Dunvegan. in 
Skye, the romantic seat of Mac-Leod of Mac- 
Leod, the chief of that ancient and iM)werful 
clan. The horn of Rorie More, preserved in 
the same family, and recorded by Dr. Johnson, 
is not to be compared with this piece of anti- 
quity, which is one of the greatest curiosities in 
Scotland. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



643 



Note 10. 

the rebellious Scottish crew, 

Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew. 
With Carrick's outlaw' d chie/.^' — 

P. 265. 

It must be remembered by all who have read 
the Scottish history, that after he had slain 
Comyn at Dumfries, and asserted his riglit to 
the Scottisli crown, Robert Bruce was reduced 
to the greatest extremity by the English and 
their adherents. He was crowned at Scone by 
the general consent of the Scottish barons, but 
his authority endured but a short time. Ac- 
cording to the phrase said to have been used by 
his wife, he was for that year '" a summer king, 
but not a winter one." 

Note ii. 
The Broach of Lortie.—'P. 266. 
It has been generally mentioned in the pre- 
ceding notes, that Robert Bruce, after his de- 
feat at Methven, being hard pressed by the 
English, endeavored, with the dispirited rem- 
nant of his followers, to escape from Breadal- 
bane and the mountains of Perthshire into the 
Argyleshire Highlands. But he was encountered 
and repulsed, after a very severe engagement, 
by the Lord of Lorn. Bruce's personal strength 
and courage were never displayed to greater 
advantage than in this conflict. There is a tra- 
dition in the family of the Mac-Dougals of 
Lorn, that their chieftain engaged m personal 
battle with Bruce himself, while the latter was 
employed in protecting the retreat of his men ; 
that Mac-Dougall was struck down by the king, 
whose strength of body was equal to ins vigor 
of mind, and would have been slain en ti-2 spot, 
had not two of Lorn's vassals, a father and son, 
whom tradition terms Mac-Keoch, rescued 
him, by seizing the mantle of the monarch, and 
dragging him from above his adversary. Bruce 
rid himself of these foes by two blows of his re- 
doubted battle-axe, but was so closely pressed 
by the other followers of Lorn, that he was 
forced to abandon the mantle, and broach 
which fastened it, clasped in the dying grasp 
of the Mac-Keochs. A studded broach, said 
to have been that which King Robert lost upon 
this occasion, was long preserved in the family 
of Mac-Dougal, and was lost in a fire which 
consumed their temporary residence. 

Note 12. 
When Comyn/ell beneath the knife 
Of that fell homicide the Bruce, — P. 263. 
Vai}i Kirkpairick's bloody dirk, 
Making sure of tnurder''s work. — P. 266. 
Every reader must recollect that the proxi- 
mate cause of Bruce's asserting his right to the 
crown of Scotland, was the death of John, called 
the Red Comyn. The causes of this act of vio- 
lence, equally extraordinary from the high raok 



both of the perpetrator and sufferer, and from 
the place where the slaughter was committed, 
are variously related by the Scottish and Eng- 
lish historians, and cannot now be ascertained. 
The fact that they met at the high altar of the 
Minorites, or Greyfriars' Church in Dumfries, 
that their difference broke out into high and 
insulting language, and that Bruce drew his 
dagger and stabbed Comy'i, is certain. Rush- 
ing to the door of the church, Bruce met two 
powerful barons, Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, 
and James de Lindsay, who eagerly asked him 
what tidings? " Bad tidings," answered Bruce ; 
" I doubt I have slain Comyn." — " Doubtest 
thou?" said Kirkpatrick; "I make sicker," 
(/. e. sure.) With these words, he and Lind- 
say rushed into the church, and despatched the 
wounded Comyn. The Kirkpatricks of Close- 
burn assumed, in memory of this deed, a hand 
holding a dagger, with the memorable words, 
" 1 make sicker." 

Note 13. 
Barendown fled fast away, 
Fled the flery De la Haye. — P. 266. 

These knights are enumerated by Barbour 
among the small number of Bruce's adherents, 
who remained in arms with him after the battle 
of Methven. 

Note 14. 
Was'i not enough to Ronald's bo7ver 
I brought thee, like a parantotir. — P. 26S. 

It was anciently customary in the Highlands 
to bring the bride to the house of the husband. 
Nay, in some cases the compl.Tisance was 
stretched so far, that she remained there upon 
trial for a twelvemonth ; and the bridegroom, 
even after this period ol cohabitation, retained 
an option of refusing to fulfil his engagement. 
It is said that a desperate feud ensued between 
the clans of Mac-Donald of Sieate and Mac- 
Leod, owing to the former chief having availed 
himself of this license to send back to Dunve- 
gan a sister or daughter of the latter. Mac- 
Leod, resenting the indignity, observed, that 
since there was no wedding bonfire, there 
should be one to solemnize the divorce. Ac- 
cordingly, he burned and laid waste the terri- 
tories of Mac-Donald, who retaliated, and a 
deadly feud, with all its accompaniments, took 
place in form. 

Note 15. 
Since matchless Wallace first had been 
In mock'ry crown' d with wreaths of green. 
—P. 269, 
Stow gives the following curious account of the 
trial and execution of this celebrated patriot : — 
"William Wallace, who had ofttimes set Scot- 
land in great trouble, was taken and brought tc 
London, with great numbers of men and women 
wondering upon him. He was lodged m the 
house of William Delect, a citizen of London. 



644 



APPENDIX. 



In Fenchurch Street. On the morrow, being 
the eve of St. Bartholomew, he was broiiglit on 
horseback to Westminster. John Legrave and 
Geffrey knights, the mayor, sheriffs, and 
aldermen of London, and many otliers, both on 
horseback and on foot, accompanying him, and 
in tlie great liall at Westminster, he being 
placed on tlie south bench, crowned with laurel, 
for that he had said in times past that he ought 
to bear a crown in that hall, as it was commonly 
reported, and being appeachtd for a traitor by 
Sir Peter aiorie, the king's justice, he an- 
swered, that he was never traitor to the King 
of England . but for other things whereof he 
was accused, he confessed them , and was after 
headed and quartered." — Stow, Chr- p. 209. 
There is something singularly doubtful about 
the mode in which Wallace was taken. That 
he was betrayed to the English is indubitable ; 
and popular fame charges Sir John enteith 
with the indelible infamy. " Accursed," says 
Arnold Blair. "be the day of nativity of John 
de enteith, and may liis name be struck out of 
the book of hfe." But John de Menleith vvasall 
along a zealous favorer of the English interest, 
and was governor of Dumbarton Castle by com- 
mission from Edward the First ; and therefore, 
as the accurate Lord Hailes has observed, could 
not be the friend and confidant of Wallace, as 
tradition states him to be. The truth seems to 
be, that Menteith, thoroughly engaged in the 
English interest, pursued Wallace closely, and 
made him prisoner through the treachery of an 
attendant, whom Peter Lang.toft cabs Jack 
Short. Tlie infamy of seizing Wahace must 
rest, therefore, between a degenerate Scottish 
nobleman, the vassal of England, and a do- 
mestic, the obscure agent of his treachery ; 
between Sir John Menteith, son of Walter, 
Earl of Menteith, and the traitor Jack Short, 

Note 16 
^as not the li/e 0/ A choir shed. 
To soothe the tyrant's ucken d bed. — 

— P. 269. 
John de Strathbogie, Earl of Athole, had at- 
tempted to escape out of the kingdom, but a 
storm cast liim upon the coast, when he was 
taken, sent to London, and executed, with cir- 
cumstances of great barbarity, being first half 
strangled, then let down from the gallows while 
yet aiive. barbarously dismembered, and his 
body burnt. It may surprise the reader to 
learn, tiiat tins was a mitigated punishment ; 
for in respect that his mother was a grand- 
daughter of King John, by his natural son 
Richard, he was not drawn on a sledge to exe- 
cution, " that point was forgiven," and he made 
the passage on horseback. Matthew of West- 
minster tells us that King Edward, then ex- 
tremely ill. received great ease from the news 
that his relative was apprehended. '■''Quo 
audito. Rex Anglia. etsi, gravissinw rtiorbo 
tunc languerety levins tamen tulit dolor ein," 
To this singular expression the text alludes. 



Note 17. 
While / the blessed cross adzmnce, 
A ltd expiate ihis unhappy chance. 
In Palest me, with sword and lance. — 

P 270. 
Bruce uniform'y professed, and probably felt, 
compunction for having violated the sanctuary 
of the church by the slaughter of Comyn; and 
finally, in his last hours, in testimony of his 
faith, penitence, and zeal, he requested Jame* 
Lord Douglas to carry his heart to Jerusalem, 
to be there deposited in the Holy Sepulchre. 

Note 18, 
De Bruce ! I rose -with purpose dread 
To speak my curse upon thy head.— 

P 270. 
So soon as the notice of Comyn's slaughter 
reached Rome, Bruce and his adherents were 
excommunicated. It was published first by the 
Archbishoi^ of York, and renewed at different 
times, particularly by Lambyrton, Bishop of St. 
Andrews, in 1308, but it does not api^ear to 
have answered the purpose which the English 
monarch expected Indeed, for reasons which 
it may be difficult to trace, the thunders of 
Rome descended upon the Scottish mountains 
witli less effect tiiar. m more fertile coLintries. 
Probably the comparative poverty of the bene- 
fices occasioned that fewer foreign clergy set- 
tled in Scotland ; and the interests of the native 
churchmen were linked with that of their 
country. Many of the Scottish prelates, Lam- 
byrton the primate particularly, declared for 
Bruce, while he was yet under the ban of the 
church, though he afterwards again changed 
sides. 

Note 19. 

A hunted wanderer on the wild. 
On foreign shores a man exiled. 



This is not metaphorical. 
Scotland did actually 



P. 270. 
The echoes of 



With the bloodhounds that bay'd for her fugi- 
tive king." 
A very curious and romantic tale is told by 
Barbour upon this subject, which may be 
abridged as follows : — 

When Bruce had again got footing in Scot- 
land in the spring of 1306, he continued to be 
in a very weak and precarious condition, gain- 
ing, indeed, occasional advantages, but obliged 
to fly before his enemies wlienever they as- 
sembled in force. Upon one occasion, while he 
was lying with a small party in the wilds of 
Cumnock, in Ayrshire, Aymerde Valence, Earl 
of Pembroke, with his inveterate foe John of 
Lorn, came against him suddenly with eight 
hundred Highlanders, besides a large body of 
men-at-arms. They brought with them a 
slough-dog, or bloodhound, which, some say, 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



645 



had been once a favorite with the Bruce him- 
self, and therefore was least likely to lose tiie 
trace. 

Bince, whose force was under four hundred 
men, continued to make head agauist the 
cavalry, till the men of Lorn had nearly cut off 
his retreat. Perceiving the danger of his situ- 
ation, he acted as the celebrated and ill-requited 
Mina IS said to have done in sim'lar circum- 
stances. He divided his force into three parts, 
appointed a j^lace of rendezvous, and com- 
manded them to retreat by different routes. 
But when John of Lorn arrived at the spot 
where they divided, he caused the hound to be 
put upon the trace, which immediately directed 
him to the pursuit of that partv which Bruce 
headed. This, therefore, Lorn [virsued with his 
whole force, paying no -if -ntion to 'he nthers. 
The king again subdivided tis 5mall body into 
three parts ind with the same esult, for the 
pursuers attached lhptn= -Ives exclusively to 
that which he l^d in pcfbon. He '.hen caused 
hisfolloweri 'o disperse, and -etamed only his 
foster-brother in hi"? company. The slough- 
dog followed "he trace, ir'd neglecting the 
others, attached "himself and his ..ttendants to 
the pursuit of the king. Lorn became con- 
vinced that his enemy was nearlv .n his power, 
and detached five of his most active: attendants 
to fo.!ow him, and interrupt his tii.sjht. They 
did so with all the agility of '.Tiountaineers. 
" What aid wiit thou rr.ak? ? " sa d Bruce to his 
single attendant, when he saw the five men gain 
ground on him. " The best I can," rep ed his 
foster-brother. " Then," said Bruce, " here I 
make my stand." The five pursuers came up 
fast. The king took three to himself, leaving 
the other two to his foster-brother. He slew 
the first who encountered him ; but observ- 
ing his foster-brother hard pressed, he sprung 
to his assistance, and despatched one of his 
assailants- Leaving him to deal with the sur- 
vivor, he returned upon the other two, both of 
whom he slew before his foster-brother had de- 
spatched his single antagonist. When this hard 
encounter was over, with a courtesy, which in 
the whole work marks Bnice's character, he 
thanked his foster-brother for his aid. " It 
likes you to say so," answered his follower ; 
'•' hut you yourself slew four of the five." — 
" True," said the king, " but only because I had 
better opportunity than you They were not 
apprehensive of me wlien they saw me en- 
counter three, so I had a moment's time to 
spring to thy aid. and to return equally unex- 
pectedly upon my own opponents." 

In the mean while Lorn's party approached 
rapidly, and the king and his foster-brother 
betook themselves to a neighboring wood. 
Here they sat down, for Bruce was exhausted 
by fatigue, until the cry of the slough-hound 
came so near, that his foster-brother entreated 
r.ruce to provide for his safety by retreating 
further. •' I have heard." answered the king, 
" that whosoaver will wade a bow-shot length 



down a ntnning-stream, shall make the slough- 
hound lose scent. — Let us try the experiment, 
for were yon devilish liound silenced, I should 
care little for the rest." 

Lorn in the mean while advanced, and found 
the bodies of his slain vassals, over uhom he 
made his moan, and threatened the most deadly 
vengeance. Then he followed the hound totlie 
^ide of the brook down which the king had 
waded a great wav- Here the hound was at 
fault, and John of Lorn, after long attempting 
in vain to recover Bruce's trace, relinquished 
the pursuit 

" (3thers," says Barbour, "affirm, that upon 
this occasion the king's life was saved by an 
excellent archer who accomi^anied him, and 
who perceiving thev would be finally taken by 
means of the b'ood-hound hid himself in a 
thicket, and she him with an arrow In which 
way," adds the metrical biographer, " this 
escape happened I am uncertain, but at that 
brook the king escaped from his pursuers " 

Mote 20 
" Alas ' dear yotdh, the unhappy timey 

A nswer d the Bruce " must bear the crime, 
Since, guiltier /ar thau you. 

Even I " — he paused : for Falkirk's woes 

Upon his conscious'soul arose. — P. 272. 

1 have followed the vulgar and inaccurate 
tradition, that Bruce fought against Wallace, 
and the array of Scotland, at the fatal battle of 
Falkirk. The story which seems to have no 
better authority than that of Blind Harry, 
bears, that having made much slaughter during 
the engagement, he sat down to dine with the 
conquerors without washing the filthy witness 
from his hands. 
'• Fasting he was. and had been in great need, 

Blooded were all his weapons and Ins weed ; 

Southeron lords scorn'd him in terms rude. 

And said Behold von Scot eats his own blood. 
" Then rued he sore, for reason bad be known. 

That blood and land alike should be his own ; 

With them he long was, ere he got away. 

But contrair Scots he fought not from that 
day." 
The account given by most of our historianSr 
of the conversation between Bruce and Wallace 
over the Garron river, is equally apocryphal. 
There is full evidence that Bruce was not at 
that time on die English side, nor present at ti.e 
battle of Falkirk \ nay, that he acted as a 
guardian of Scotland, along with John Comyn, 
in the name of Baliol, and in opposition to the 
English. 

Note 21. 

Thfse are the savage wilds thai lie 

North of Strathnardill a nd Dunskye. — 

P 273. 

The extraordinary piece of scenery which I 
have here attempted to describe is, I tliiiik, un- 
paralleled in any part of Scotland, at least in 
any which I have happened to visit. If lies 



646 



APPENDIX. 



just upon the frontier of the I^aird of Jlac 
Leod's country, wlncli is thereabouts divided 
from the estate of Mr. Mac-AUister oi .Strath- 
Aird. called Sirathnaraill bv the Ds^an of the 
Isles. 

Note 22-, 
And f'lermairl^s alabaster o-rot, 
I! '//,■> bathes her Ihnbs in sunless we'l. 
Deep in Strathaird s enchanted cell— 1 

P 27& ' 

Imagination can hardly conceive anything 
Wore beautiful than the extraordinary -.rroito 
discovered not many years since upon ih i 
estate of Alexander Mac-Allisler, Esq , ol 
Strathaird It has since been much and de- 
servedly celebrated. ai>d a full account of ;f« 
beauties has been published by Dr Mac-Lea\ 
of Oban The genera! tmpression may perhaps 
be gathered from the following extract from a 
journal, which written under the feelnig-j oi liie 
moment, is likely to be more accurate than anv 
attempt to recollect the impressions then re- 
ceived — " The first entrance to this celebrated 
cave IS rude and up.promismg ; but the light of 
tbs torches, with wliicli we were provided, was 
soon reflected from the roof, floor, and walls, j 
which seem as if ihcy were sheeted with marble, 
partly smooth, partly rougji with frost-work and 
rustic ornaments, and partly seeming to be 
w ought into statuary The floov forms a steep 
and difficult ascent, and mig'nt be fancifuhy 
compared to a sheet of water, winch, while it 
rushed whitening and foaming down a declivitv. 
had bsen suddenly arrested and consolidated by 
the spell of an enchanter. Upon attaining tlie 
summit of this ascent, the cave opens into a 
splendid gallery, adorned with the most daz- 
zling crystallizations, and finally descends with 
rapidity to the brink of a pool of the most lim- 
pid water, about four or five yards broad. 
There opens beyond this pool a portal arch, 
formed by two columns of white spar, with 
beautiful chasing upon the sides, which promises 
a continuation of the cave. One of our sailors 
swam across, for there is no other mode of pass- 
ing, and informed us (as indeed we partly saw 
by the light lie carried) that the enchantment 
of Mac-.4ilister's cave terminates with this j>or- 
tai, a little beyond which there was only a rude 
cavern, speedily choked with stones and earth. 
But the pool, on the brink of which we stood, 
Burroiir.ded by the most fanciful mouldings, in 
a substance resembling white marble, and dis- 
tinguished by the depth and purity of its waters. 
m ght have been the bathing grotto of a naiad. 
7':ie groups of combined figures projecting, or 
embossed, by which the pool is surrounded, are 
exquisitely elegant and fanciful. A statuary 
might catch beautiful hints from the singular 
and romantic disposition of those stalactites. 
There is scarce a form or group on which active 
fancy may not trace figures or grotesque orna- 
ments, which iiave been gradually moulded in 
this cavern by the dropping of the calcareous 
water hardening into petrifactions. Ma'iy of 



those fine groups have been iniured by the sense* 
less rage of appropriation of recent tourists , 
and the grotto had lost (F am informed), through 
the smoke of torches, something of tliat vivid 
silver tint which was originally one of its cliief 
distinctions. But enough of beautv remains ts 
compensate forali that may be lost "— D'- M.ic- 
Ali ster of Strathaird has. wtli great pvopniy. 
built up the exte'ior entrance to this cave, in 
■order that strangers may enter properly attended 
by a guide to prevent any repetition of the 
wanton and se'fish injury which this singular 
scene has a. ready sustained. 

NoTF ?5 
Vet to no sense 0/ seljiih wrongs. 
Scar witness with me^ H, aven, belon^t 
My joy o'er Edjvard'i ''ler — P 278- 
The generosity which does lustice to llie 
character of an enemv, often marks Bruce's 
sentiments, as recorded by the faiilifiii Barbour. 
He seldom mentions a fallen enemv without 
praising sr.uch eood qualities as he might pos- 
sess 1 hall omy take one instance. Shortly 
after Bruce landed in Carrick, in 1306. Sir In- 
gram Bell, the English governor of Ayr, en- 
gaged a wealthv veoinan, who liad hitherto 
been a follower of Bruce, to undertake the task 
of assassinating Inm. The king learned this 
treachery, as he is said to have done other 
secreto of the tnemy, by means of a female with 
whom he had an intrigue. Shortly after he was 
possessed of this mfovmation. Bruce, resorting to 
a small thicket at a distance from his men with 
only a single page to attend lum. met the traitor, 
accompanied by two of his sons They ap» 
proached him with their wonted familiarity, but 
Bruce, taking his page's bow and arrow, com- 
manded them to keep at a distance. As they 
still pressed forward with [)rofessions of zeal for 
his person and service, he, after a second warn- 
ing, shot the father with the arrow ; and being 
assaulted successively by the two sons, de- 
spatched first one, who was armed with an axe, 
then as the other charged him with a spear, 
avoided the thrust, struck the head from tiie 
spear, and cleft the skull of the assassin with a 
blow of his two-handed sword. 

Note 24. 

And Roiuis tnountaim dark have sent 

Their hunters to the shore. — P 280. 
Ronin (popularly called Rum, a name which 
a poet may be pardoned for avoiding if pos- 
sible) IS a very rough ar.d mountainous is'and, 
adjacent to those of Eigg and Cannay. There 
is almost no arable ground upon it, so that, ex- 
cept in the plenty of the deer, which of course 
are now nearly extirpated, it still deseryes the 
description bestowed by the arch-dean of the 
Isles. •■' Ronin, sixteen myle north-west from 
the lie of Coll, lyes ane ile callit R.onin lie, of 
sixteen myle long, and six in bredthe in the 
narrowest, ane forest ot heigh mountains, and 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



647 



abundance of little deir in it, quhilk deir will 
never be slane dounewith, but the principal 
saittis man be in the heigiit of the hiil, because 
the deir will be caliit upwart ay be the tanichell 
or without tynciiel they will pass upwart per- 
force. In this lie will be gotten about Britane 
als many wild nests upon the plane mure as 
men pleasis to gadder, and yet by reason the 
fowls has few to start them except deir. This 
lie :yes from the west to thf eist in lenth, 
and pertains to M' Kenabrey of Colla. Many 
celau geese are in this i!e." — Monro's De- 
icriJ>iioii o/the IVesterjt Isles, p. 18. 

Note 25. 

Oit Scooreigff next a wanting l'i:ht 
Sumntoii d her warriors to ihe fight ; 
A nnmerons race., ere stern Macleod 
O'eriheit dleak shores in vengeance strode. — 
P. 280. 
These, and the following lines of the stanza, 
refer to a dreadful tale of feudal vengeance, of 
which unfortunately there are relics that still 
attest the tiuth. Scoor-Eigg is a high peak in 
the centre of the small Isle of Eigg, or Egg. It ;s 
well known to mineralogists, as affoidmg many 
interesting specimens, and to others whom 
chance or curiosity may lead to the island, for 
tlie astonishing view of the mainland and 
(leighboring isles, which it commands. 

2bth August., 1814.— At seven tins morning 
we were in the sound which divides the Isle of 
Rum from that of Eigg. The latter, although 
hiliy and rocky, ar.d traversed by a remarkably 
high and barren r;dge, called Scoor-Rigg, has, 
in point of soil, a much more promising ap- 
pearan(»e. Southward of both lies the Isle of 
J\Ju;ch, or Muck, a low and fertile island, and 
though the least, yet probably the most valu- 
able of the three. We manned the boa: and 
lowed along the shore of Egg m ques' of a 
cavern, wh:ch had been the memorable scene of 
a horrid feudal vengeance. We had rounded 
more than half the island, admiring the entrance 
oi many a bold natural cave, which its rocks 
exhibited, without finding that which we 
sought, until we procured a guide. Nor, in- 
deed, was it surprising that 11 should have 
escaped liie search of strangers, as there are 
no outward mdications more than might dis- 
tinguish the entrance of a fox-earth. This 
noied cave has a very narrow opening, through 
which one can hardly creep on his knees and 
liands. It rises steep and lofty within, and runs 
into the bowels of the rock to the depth of 255 
measured feet; the height at the entrance may 
be about three feet, but rises within to eighteen 
or uventy, and the breadth may vary in the 
same proportion. The rude and stony bottom 
of tills cave is strewed with the bones of men, 
women, and children, ihe sad rehcs of the 
ancient inhabitants of the is'.and, 200 in num- 
ber, who were slain on the following occasion : 
—The Mac- Donalds of the Isle of Egg, a 



people dependent on Clan-Ranald, had done 
some injury to the Laud of Mac-Leod. The 
tradition of the isle says, that it was by a per- 
sonal attack on the chieftain, in which ins back 
was broken. But that of the other isles bears, 
more probably, that the injury was offered to 
two or three of the Mac-Leods, who, landing 
upon Eigg, and using some freedom wiih the 
young women, were seized by the islanders, 
bound hand and foot, and turned adrift in a 
boat which the wind and waves safely con- 
ducted to Skye. To avenge th- offence given, 
Mac-Leod sailed with such a body of men as 
rendered resistance hopeless. The natives, 
fearing his vengeance, concealed themselves in 
this cavern, and, afte'- a strict search, the Mac- 
Leods went on board their galleys, after doing 
wliat mischief they c.uld, concluding the in- 
habitants had left \\\t isle, and betaken them- 
selves to tlie Long Isiand, or some of Clan- 
Ranald's other possessii ns. But next morning 
they espied from the vessels a man upon the 
island, and immed:ate!y landing again, they 
traced his retreat by the marks of his foot- 
steps, a light snow be-ng unhappily on the 
ground. Mac-Leod then surrounded the 
cavern, summoned the subterranean garrison, 
and demanded that th^ individuals wlio had 
offended him should be delivered up» to him. 
This was peremptorily refused The chief- 
tain then caused his peopl;- t 1 divert th course 
of a rill of water, which; falling over the en- 
trance of the cave, would havj prevented his 
purposed vengeance. He then kindled at the 
entrance of the cavern a hug' fire, composed oi, 
turf and fern, and maintained i; with unrelent- 
ing assiduity, until all within wer destroyed 
b/suffocation. The date rf this dreadful d.^o^t 
must have been recent, if on.' may ]udge fronn 
the fresh appearance of thos; relics- I brouglV- 
off, in spite of the prejudice of our sailors, a 
skull from among the numerrtis specimens o) 
mortality v/hich the cavern afforded. Before 
re-embarking we visited another cave, opening 
to the sea, but of a character entirely different, 
being a large open vault, as high as that of a 
cathedral, and running back a great way into 
the rock at the same height. The height and 
width of the opening gives ample light to liiC 
whole. Here, after i7-;5, when th ■ Cathoiic 
priests were scarcely tolerated, the priest of 
Eigg used to perform the Roman Catholic 
service, most of the islanrttas being i^f that per- 
suasion. A huge ledge of rocks rising aboui 
I half-way up one side of the vault, served fof 
altar and pulpit ; and the appearance of a 
priest and Highland congregation m such an 
extraordinary place of worship, might have en- 
gaged the pencil of Salvator." 

Note 26. 
Scenes sung by him who sings no more. — 

P. 281. 
The ballad entitled, " Macphail of Colon- 
say, and tiie Mermaid of Corrievekin " [sae 



648 



APPENDIX. 



Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv. p. 285], wa<; com- 
posed by John Leyden, from a tradition which | 
lie found while maknig a tour through the 
Hebrides about 1801, soon before his fatal de- 
parture for India, where, after having made 
further progress in Oriental literature than 
any man of letters who had embraced those 
studies, he died a martyr to his zeal for knowl- 
edge, in the island of Java, immediately after 
tie landing of our forces near Batavia, in 
August, 181 1. 

Note 27. 

Up Tarbaft western lake they bore, 

Theti drae-e-'d their bark the isthmus o'er. — 

p. 281. 

The peninsula of Can tire is joined to South 

Knapdale by a very narrow isthmus; formed 

by the western and eastern Luch of Tarbat. 

These two saltwater laltes, or bays, encroach 

so far upon the land, and the extremities come 

so near to each other, that there is not above 

a mile oi land to divide them. 

Note 28. 

The sun, ere yet he sunk behind 
Beu-Ghoii. ''the Mountaui of the IVind^'' 
Gave h'ls grim peaks a greeting kind. 

And bade Loch Rama smile.— '?, 28r. 
Loch Ranza is a beautiful bay, on the 
northern extremity of Arran, opening towards 
East Tarbat Loch. It is well described by 
Pennant : — " The approach was magnificent ; 
a fine bay in front about a mile deep, having 
a ruined castle near the low end, on a low 
far-projecting neck of land, that forms another 
harbor, with a narrow passage ; but within 
has three fathom of water, even at the lowest 
ebb. Beyond is a little plain watered by a 
stream, and inhabited by the people of a small 
village. The whole isenvironed with a theatre 
of mountains ; and in the background the ser- 
rated crags of Grianan-Atho! soar above." — 
Pennant's Tour to the Western Isles, pp. 
191-2. Ben-Ghaoil, "the mountain of the 
wnids," is generally known by its English, and 
less poetical, name of Goatfield. 

Note 2g. 

Each to Loch Ranza' s margin spring; 

That blast was winded by the King] — 

P. 282. 

The passage in Barbour, describing the land- 
ing of Bruce, and his being recognized by 
Douglas and those of his followers wlio had 
preceded him, by the sound of his horn, is in 
the original singularly simple and affecting. — 
7"iie king arrived in Arran with thirty-three 
imall row-boats. He interrogated a female if 
there had arrived any warlike men of late in 
that country. "Surely, sir," she replied, "I 
can tell you of many who lately came hither, 
iibcomfitted the English governor, and block- 



aded his castle of Brodick. They maintain 
themselves in a wood at no great distance.'' 
The king, truly conceiving that this must be 
Douglas and his followers, who liad lately set 
forth to try their fortune in Ai'-an, desired 
the woman to conduct him to the wood. She 
obeyed. 

•' The king then blew his horn on high; 
And girt his men that were him by, 
Hold them s'^ll, and all privy ; 
And syne again his horn blew he. 
James of Dowglas heard him blow, 
And at the last alone gan know. 
And said, ' Soothly yon is the king ; 
I know long while since his b owing.* 
The third time therewithal he blew, 
And then Sir Robert Bold it knew ; 
And said, ' Yon is the king, but dread, 
Go we forth till him, better speed.' 
Then went they till the king in bye, 
And him inclined courteously. 
And blithiy welcomed them the king, 
And was joyful of their meeting, 
And kissed them ; and speared syne 
How they had fared in hunting? 
And they him told all. but lesing : 
Syne laud they God of their meeting. 
Syne with the king till his harLouiye 
\Vent both loyfu' and iolly." 

Barbour's .firwc^', Book v. pp. 115, 116. 

Note 30. 

his brother blamed. 

But shared the iveakness, -Ji-hile ashamed, 
With haughty laugh his head he turn'd. 
And das /id away the tear he scorn d.— 

P. 283. 
The kind and yet fiery character of Edward 
Biuce IS well painted by Barbour, m the ac- 
count of his behavior after the battle of Ban- 
nockburn. Sir Walter Ross, one of the very 
few Scottish nobles who feii .n that battle, was 
so dearly beloved by Edward, that he wished 
the victory had been lost, so Ross lud lived. 

NoTH 31. 

Thou heard' st a -jjfeichcd female plain 

In agony 0/ travail-pain, 

A nd thou didst bid thy little band 

Upon the instant tuy-n and s'and, 

A nd dare the worst the foe might do, 

Rather than, like a knight untrue. 

Leave to pursuers merciless 

A wo7nan in her last distress. — P. 284. 

This incident, which illustrates so happily 
the chivalrous generosity of Bruce's character, 
is one of the many simple and natural traits 
recorded by Barbour. Jt occurred during the 
expedition which Bruce made to Ireland, to 
support the pretensions of his brother Edward 
to the throne of that kingdom. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



649 



Note 32. 

ifev cfiastns ke pass'd, where fractures wide 
Craved wary eye and ample stride. — P. 287. 

The interior of the island of Arran abounds 
with beautiful Highland scenery. The hills, 
being very rocky and precipitous, afford some 
cataracts of great height, though of inconsider- 
able breadth. There is one pass over tiie river 
Machrai, renowned for the dilemma of a poor 
■woman, who, being tempted by the narrowness 
of the ravine to step across, succeeded in mak- 
ing the first movement, but took fright when it 
became necessary to move the other foot, and 
remained in a posture equally ludicrous and 
dangerous, until some chance passenger as- 
sisted her to extricate herself. It is said she 
remained there some hours. 

Note 33, 

Old Brodick* s gothic towers were seen ; 

Froin Hastings, late their English Lord, 

Douglas had won them by the sword. — 

P. 287. 

Brodick or Brathwick Castle, in the Isle of 
Arran, is an ancient fortress, near an open 
roadstead called Brodick-Bay, and not far dis- 
tant from a tolerable harbor, closed in by the 
Island of Lamlash. This important place had 
been assailed a short time before Bruce's ar- 
rival in the island. James Lord Douglas, who 
accompanied Bruce to his retreat in Rachrine, 
seems, in the spring of 1306, to have tired of 
his abode there, and set out accordingly, in the 
phrase of the times, to see what adventnre God 
would send him. Sir Robert Boyd accompanied 
him ; and his knowledge of the localities of 
Arran appears to have directed his course 
thither. They landed in the island privately, 
and appear to have laid an ambush for Sir John 
Hastings, the English governor of Brodvvick, 
and surprised a considerable supply of arms 
and provisions, and nearly took tlie castle it- 
self. Indeed, that they actually did so, has 
been generally averred by historians, although 
it does not appear from the narrative of Bar- 
bour. On the contrary, it would seem that 
they took shelter within a fortification of 
the ancient inhabitants. . . . The castle is 
now much modernized, but has a dignified 
appearance, being surrounded by flourishing 
plantations. 

NoTK 34. 
Oft, too, with unaccustovted ears, 
A language much unmeet he hears. — 

P. 287. 
Barbour, with great simplicity, gives- an an- 
ecdote, from which it would seem that the vice 
of profane swearing, afterwards too general 
among the Scottish nation, was, at this time, 
confined to military men. As Douglas, after 
Bruce's retur.a to Scotland, was roving about 
the mountainous country of Tweeddale, near 



the water of Line, he chanced to hear some 
persons in a farm-house say, ^'' the devil.** 
Concluding, from this hardy expression, that 
the house contained warlike guests, he imme- 
diately assailed it, and had the good fortune 
to make prisoners Thomas Randolph, after- 
wards the famous Earl of Murray, and Alex- 
ander Stuart, Lord Bonkie. Both were then 
in the English interest, and had come into 
that country with the purpose of driving out 
Douglas. They afterwards ranked among 
Bruce's most zealous adherents. 

Note 35. 

Now ask you whence that wondrous lights 

Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight ! 

It ne'er was known. — P. 289. 

The following are the words of an ingenious 
correspondent, to whom I am obliged for much 
information respecting Turnberry and its neigh- 
borhood. "The only tradition now remem- 
bered of the landing of Robert the Bruce in 
Carrick, relates to the fire seen by him from 
the Isle of Arran. It is still generally reported, 
and religiously believed by many, that this fire 
was really the work of supernatural power, 
unassisted by the hand of any mortal being ; 
and it Is said, that, for several centuries, the 
flame Yose yearly, on the same hour of the same 
night of the year, on which the king first saw 
it from the turrets of Brodick Castle ; and 
some j^o so far as to say, that if the exact time 
were known, it would be still seen. That this 
superstitious notion is very ancient, is evident 
from the place where the fire is said to have 
j appeared being called the Bogles' Brae, be- 
, yond the remembrance of man. In support of 
this curious belief, it is said that the practice of 
burning heath for the improvement of land was 
then unknown ; that a spunkie (Jack o'lan- 
thorn) could not have been seen across the 
breadth of the Forth of Clyde, between Ayr- 
shire and Arran ; and that the courier of Bruce 
was his kinsman, and never suspected of 
treachery."— Letter from Mr. Joseph Train, of 
Newton Stev,'art. 

Note 36. 

The, Bruce hath woft his father's hall!— 

P. 2C3j, 

I have followed the flattering and pleasing 
tradition, that the Bruce, after his descent upon 
the coast of Ayrshire, actually gained posses* 
sion of his maternal castle. But the tradition 
is not accurate. The fact is, that he was only 
strong enough to alarm and drive in the out- 
posts of the English garrison, then commanded, 
not by Clifford, as assumed in the text, but by 
Percy. Neither was Clifford slam upon this 
occasion, though he had several skirmishes 
with Bruce. He fell afterwards in the battle 
of Bannockburn. Bruce, after alarming the 
castle of Turnberry, and surprising some part 
of the garrison, who were quartered without 



650 



APPENDIX. 



the walls v\ the fortress, retreated into the 
mountainous part of Carrick, and tliera made 
kjimself so strong, that the EiigUsli were obliged 
to evacuate Turnberry, and at length the 
Castle of Ayr. Many of his benefactions and 
/oval gifts attest his attacliment to the here- 
ditary followers of his house, in this part of the 
country. 

Note n. 
When Bruce' s banner had victorious flovud. 
Cer LoudoinC s moitntain, and in L/ry''s vale- 

P. 294- 

The first important advantage gained by 
Bruce, after landing at Turnberry, was over 
Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, the 
same by whom he had been defeated near 
Rlethven. They met, as has been said, by 
appointment, at Loudonhill, in the west of 
Scotland. Pembroke sustained a defeat ; and 
from that time Bruce was at the head of a 
considerable flying army. Yet he was subse- 
quently obligecl to retreat into Aberdeenshire, 
and was there assailed by Comyn, Earl of 
Buchan, desirous to avenge the death of liis 
relative, the Red Comyn, and supported by a 
body of English troops under Philip de Mow- 
bray. Bruce was ill at the time of a scro- 
fulous disorder, but took horse to meet his 
enemies, although obliged to be supported on 
either side. He was victorious, and it is said 
that the agitation of his spirits restored his 
health. 

Note 38. 
IVheft English blood oft deluged Douglas-dale- 

P. 294 

The " good Lord James of Douglas," during 
these commotions, often took from the English 
his own castle of Douglas, but being unable to 
garrison it, contented himself with destroying 
the fortifications, and retiring into the moun- 
tains. As a reward to his patriotism, it is said 
to liave been prophesied, that how often soever 
Douglas Castle should be destroyed, it should 
always again rise more magnificent from its 
rums. Upon one of these occasions lie used 
fearful cruelty, causing all the store of provi- 
sions, which the English had laid up in his 
castle, to be heaped together, bursting the 
wme and beer casks among tile wheat and 
fiour, slaughtering the cattle upon the same 
spot, and upon the top of the whole cutting 
the throats of the Enghsh prisoners. This 
pleasantry of the "good Lord James" is com- 
memorated under the name of the Douglas'' 
Larder. 

Note 39. 

Andfiery Ed^vard routed stout St. John.— 
P. 294. 

"John de St- John, with 15,000 horsemen, 
had advanced to oppose the inroad of the 
Scots. By a forced marcii he endeavored to 
enrprise them, hut intelligence of his motions 



was timeously received. The courage of Ed- 
ward t^ruce. approaching to temerrty, fre- 
quently enabled him to achieve what men of 
more judicious valor would never hav-e at- 
tempted. He ordered the mfantry, and the 
meaner sort of his army, to entrench them- 
selves in strong narrow ground He himself, 
with fifty horsemen well harnessed, issued forth 
under cover of a thick mist, surprised the Eng- 
lish on their march, attacked and dispersed 
them."— Dai.rymple's AfDialsqf Edinburgh, 
quarto, Edinburgh, 1779, p. 25. 

Note 40. 

When Randolph" s war-cry swelled the south- 
ern gale. — P. 294. 

Thomas Randolph, Bruce's sister's son, a re- 
nowned Scottish chief, was in tlie early part of 
his life not more remarkable for consistency tiian 
Bruce himself. He espoused his uncle's party 
when Bruce first assumed the crown, and was 
made prisoner at the fatal battle of Methven, 
in which b.is relative's hopes appeared to be 
ruined. Randolph accordingly not only sub- 
mitted to the English, but took an active part 
against Bruce ; appeared in arms against him : 
and in the skirmish where he was so closely 
pursued by the bloodhound, it is said liis 
nephew took his standard with his own hand. 
But Randolph was afterwards made prisoner 
by Douglas in Tweeddale, and brought before 
K.ing Robert. Some liarsh .language was ex- 
changed between the uncle and nephew, and 
the latter was committed for a time to cloSe 
custody. Afterwards, however, they were re- 
conciled, and Randolph was created Earl of 
Moray about 1312. After this period lie emi- 
nently distinguished himself, first by tlie sur- 
prise of Edinburgh Castle, and afterv/ards by 
many similar enterprises, conducted with equal 
courage and ability. 

Note 41. 

Stirling's towers. 

Beleaguered by King Robert's powers ; 

A lid they took ter7n of truce.— V. 294, 
When a long train cf success, actively im- 
proved by Robert Bruce, had made him master 
of almost all Scotland, Stirling Castle contniued 
to hold out. The care of the blocl<ade w. 3 
commuted by the king to his brother Edwarc', 
who concluded a treaty with Sir Piiilip Mow- 
bray, the governor, that he should surrender 
the fortress, if it were not succored by tlie 
King of England before St. John the Baptist's 
day. The King severely blamed his brother 
for the- imiiolicy of a treaty, whicli gave time 
to the king of England to advance to the relief 
of the castle, with all his assembled firces, and 
obliged himself either to meet them in battle 
with an inferior force, or to retreat with dis- 
honor. " Let all England come," answered 
the reckless Edward; "we will fight them 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



651 



were they more." The consequence was. of 
course, tliat each kinj;dom mustered I'ts strength 
for the expected battle ; and as the space 
agreed upon readied from Lent to Midsummer, 
full tune was allowed for that purpose. 

Note 42. 

A nd Cambria^ btii of late subdued. 
Sent forth her mountain multitude. — 

P. 295. 

Edward the First, with the usual policy of a 
conqueror, employed the Welsii, whom he had 
subdued, to assist him in his Scottish svai's, for 
which their liabits, as mountaineers, particu- 
larly fitted them. But this policy was not with- 
out its risks. Previous to t!ie battle of Falkirk, 
the Welsh quarrelled with the English men- 
at-arms, and after bloodshed on both parts, 
separated themselves from his army, and the 
feud between them, at so dangerous and criti- 
cal a juncture, was reconciled with difficulty. 
Edward II. followed his father's example in this 
particular, and with no better success. They 
could not be brought to exert themselves in the 
cause of their conquerors. But they had an in- 
different reward for their forbearance. With- 
out arms, and clad only in scanty dresses of 
linen cloth, they apeared naked in tiie eyes 
even of the Scottish peasantry ; and after the 
rout of Bannockburn, were massacred by them 
in great numbers, as they retired in confusion 
towards their own country. Tliey were under 
command of Sir Maurice de Berkley. 

Note 43. 

A nd Cojinos^ht four" d frovt waste and wood 
Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude 
Dark Eth O'Connor sway d.—^. 295. 

There is in the Foedera an invitation to Eth 
O'Connor, chief of the Irish of Connaught, set- 
ting forth that the king was about to move 
against iiis Scottish rebels, and therefore re- 
questing the attendance of all the force he could 
muster, either commanded by himself in person, 
or by some nobleman of his race. These 
auxiliaries were to be commanded by Richard 
de Burgh, Earl of Ulster. 

Note 44. 

The monarch rode alon^s; the van. — P. 297. 

Tlie English vanguard, commanded by the 
Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, came in sight 
of the Scottish army upon the evening of the 
23d of June. Bruce was then riding upon a 
little palfrey m front of his foremost line, put- 
ting his host in order. It was then that the 
personal encounter took place betwixt him and 
Sir Henry de Bohun, a gallant English knight, 
the issue of which had a great effect upon the 
^rits o£ both armie?. 



Note 45. 

Responsive from the Scottish host^ 
Pipe-clang- and bugle-sound were toss'd.— 

P. 290. 

There is an old tradition, that the well-known 
Scottish tune of " Hey.tuttut.-utti," was Biuce's 
march at the battle of i.anr.ockburn. The kite 
Mr. Ritson, no granter-of propositions, doubts 
whether the Scots had any martial nuisic, 
quotes Froissart's account of eacii soldier in the 
liost bearing a little horn, on which, at the 
onset, they would make such a horrible noise, 
as if all the devils of hell had been among them. 
He observes, that these horns are the only 
music mentioned by Barbour, and concludes, 
that it must remain a moot jioint whether 
Bruce's army were cheered by tlie sound even 
of a solitary bagpipe.— JVistorrcal Essay pre- 
fixed to R it son's Scottish Songs. — \\. may be 
observed m passing, tliat the Scottish of tin? 
period certainly observed some musical cadence, 
even in winding their horns, since F^riice was at 
once recognized by iiis followers from ins mode 
of blowing. See Note 29, p 282. But the tra- 
dition, tiuj or false, has been the means of 
securing to Scotland one of tlie finest lyrics in 
the language, the celebrated war-song of Burns, 
~" Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled." 

Note 46. 

See where yon hare-foot Abbott stands, 
And blesses them with lifted hands. — V. 2^"). 

" Maurice, abbot of InchafEray, placing him- 
self on an eminence, celebrated mass in sigiit of 
the Scottish army. He then passed along the 
front bare-footed, and bearing a crucifix m his 
hands, and exhorting the Scots, in few and 
forcible words, to combat for their rights and 
their liberty. The Scots kneeled down. ' They 
yield,' cried Edward ; " see, tiiey implore 
mercy.' — ' They do,' answered Ingelram de 
Umfraville, ' but not ours. On that field they 
will be victorious, or die." — Annals of Scot- 
land, vol. 11. p. 47. 

Note 47. 

Forth, marshal, on the peasant foe i 
We'll tame the terrors ojf their bow. 

And cut the l<ou>-string loose .'—P. 299. 
The English archers commenced the attack 
with their usual braverv and dexterity. I'.ut 
against a force, whose importance he li.id 
learned by fatal experience, Bruce was pro- 
vided. A small but select body of cavalry 
were detaclied from the right, under command 
of Sir Robert Keith. 'I'hey rounded, as I con- 
ceive, the marsh called Milton bog, and, keei^ing 
the firm ground, charged the left Hank and rear 
of the English archers. As the bowmen had no 
spears nor long weapons fit to defend them- 
selves against horse, they were instantly thrown 
into disorder, and siiread through the wiiole 



652 



APPENDIX. 



English army a confusion from which they 
never fairiy recovered. 

Ahlioiigli the success of this manoeuvre was 
evident, it is very remarkable that the Scottish 
generals do not appear to have profited by the 
lesson. Almost every subsequent battle which 
they lost against England, was decided by the 
archers, to whom the close and compact array 
of the Scottish phalanx afforded an exposed 
and unresisting mark. The bloody battle of 
Halidoun-hil!. fought scarce twenty years after- 
wards, was so completely gained by the archers, 
that the Kngiish are said to have lost only one 
knight, one e<=nuire, and a few foot-soldiers. At 
the battle of Neville's Cross, in 1346, where 
David II. was defeated and made prisoner, 
John de Graham, observing the loss which the 
Sects sustained from the English bowmen, 
offered to charge and disperse them, if a hun- 
dred men-at-arms were put under his command. 
" But, to confess the truth," says Fordun, " he 
cou.d not procure a single horseman for the 
service proposed." Of such little use is ex- 
perience in war, where its results are opposed 
by habit or prejudice." 

Note 48. 

Each braggart churl could boast before. 

Twelve Scottish lives his baldrick bore. 

-P. 300. 

Roger Ascham quotes a similar Scottish prov- j 
erb, " whereby they give the whole praise of 
shooting honestly to Englishmen, saying thus, 
* that every English archer beareth under his 
girdle twenty-four Scottes.' Indeed Toxophi- 
lus says before, and truly of the Scottish nation, 
' The Scottes surely be good men of warre in 
theyre owne feates as can be ; but as for shoot- 
inge, they can neither use it to any profite, nor 
yet challenge it for any praise.' " — Works 
cf Ascham, edited by Bennet, 4to, p. no. 

It is said, I trust incorrectly, by an ancient 
English historian, that the " good Lord James 
of Douglas " dreaded the superiority of the Eng- 
lish archers so much, that when he made any 
of them prisoner, he gave him the option of 
losing the forefinger of liis right hand, or his 
right eye, either species of mutilation rendering 
him incapable to use the bow. I have mislaid 
the reference to this singular passage. 
Note 49. 

Down I down I in headlong overthrcnu^ 

Horsetnan and horse, the/oreniost go. — 

P. 300. 

It is generally alleged by historians, that th; 
English men-at-arms fell into the hidden snare 
which Bruce had prepared for them. Barbour 
does not mention the circumstance. According 
to his account, Randolph, seeing the slaughter 
made by the cavalry on the right wing among 
the archers, advanced courageously against the 
main body of the English, and entered into 
close combat with them. Douglas and Stuart, 
who commanded the Scottish centre, led their 
division also to the charge, and the battle be- 



coming general along the whole line, was 
obstmately maintained on both sides for a long 
space of time ; the Scottish archers doing great 
execution among the English men-at-avms; 
after the bowmen of England were dispersed. 
Note 50. 

A nd steeds that shriek in agony. — P. 300. 

I have been told that this line requires an ex- 
planatory note ; and, indeed, those who witness 
the silent patience with which horses submit to 
the most cruel usage, may be permitted to 
doubt, that, in moments of sudden and intoler- 
able anguish, they utter a most melancholy 
cry. Lord Erskine, in a speech made in the 
House of Lords, upon a bill for enforcing 
humanity towards animals, noticed this remark- 
able fact, in language which I will not mutilate 
by attempting to repeat it. It was my fortune, 
upon one occasion, to hear a horse, in a 
moment of agony, utter a thrilling scream, 
which I still "consider the most melancholy 
sound I ever heard. 

Note 51. 

Lord of the Isles, vty trust ift thee 
Is firm as A ilsa Rock ! 

Rush on -with Highland s7vord and targe, 

/, with my Carrick spearmen charge. — 

P. 301. 

V'hen the engagement between the main 
bodies haa lasted some time, Bruce made a 
decisive movement, by bringing up the Scottish 
reserve. It is traditionally said, that at this 
crisis, he addressed the Lord of the Isles in 
a phrase used as a motto by some of his de- 
scendants, " My trust is constant in thee." 
Barbour intimates, that the reserve "assembled 
on one field,'' that is, on the same line with 
the Scottish forces already engaged ; which 
leads Lord Hailes to conjecture that the Scottish 
ranks must have been much thinned by slaugh- 
ter, since, in that circumscribed ground, there 
was room for the reserve to fall into the line. 
But the advance of the Scottish cavalry must 
have contributcf' a good deal to form the vricancy 
occupied by the reserve. 

Note 52. 

To arms th-sy fiew, — axe, club, or spear, — 
And mimic cnsigiis high they rear. — P. 302. 

The followers of the Scottish camp observed, 
from the Gillies' Hill in the rear, the impressicKi 
produced upon the English army by tlie bring- 
ing up of the Scottish reserve, and prompted 
by the enthusiam of the moment, or the desire 
of plunder, assumed, in a tumultuary manner, 
such arms as tliey found nearest, fastened 
sheets to tent-poles and lances, and showed 
themselves like a new army advancing to 
battle. 

The unexpected apparition, of what seemed 
a new army, completed the confusion which 
already prevailed among the English, who fled 
in every direction, and weie pursued with 
immense slaughter. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



6S3 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



Note i. 

The peasant, at his labor blithe, 
Plies the hook'd staff and shorten d scythe. 
-P. 305. 

The reaper in Flanders carries in his left 
!M;id a stick with an iron hook, with wiiicli he 
i jilects as much gram as he can cut at one 
f-veep with a short scythe, which he holds in 
his right hand. They carry on this double 
process with great spirit and dexterity. 

Note 2. 

Pale Brussels ! then what thoughts were thine. 

P. 306. 

it was affirmed by the prisoners of war, that 
Bonaparte had promised his army, in case of 
victory, twenty-four hours' plunder of the city 
of Brussels. 

Note 3. 

" Oh ! On /" was still his stern exclaim. — 
P. 306. 

The characteristic obstinacy of Napoleon 
was never more fully displayed than in what 
we may be permitted to hope will prove the 
last of his fields. He would listen to no ad- 
vice, and allow of no obstacles. An eye-witness 
has given the following account of his demean- 
or towards the end of the action : — 

" It was near seven o'clock ; Bonaparte, who 
till then had remained upon the ridge of the 
hill whence he could best behold what passed, 
contemplated with a stern countenance the 
scene of this horrible slaughter. • The more 
that obstacles seemed to multiply, the more 
his obstinacy seemed to increase. He became 
mdignar.t at these unforeseen difficulties ; and, 
far from fearing to push to extremities an army 
whose confidence in him was boundless, he 
ceased not to pour down fresh troops, and to 
.c;iv-e orders to march forward — to charge with 
tile bayonet — to carry by storm. He was re- 
peatedly informed, from different points, that 
i!ie day went against him, and that the troops 
Sismsd to be disordered ; to which he only 
r.-!phed,— ' En avant I E71 avant ! ' 

*"0;ie general sent to inform the Emperor 
t'lat he was in a position which he could not 
maintain, because it was commanded by a bat- 
tery, and requested to know, at the same time, 
in what way he should protect his division 
from the murderous fire of the English artil- 
lery. ' Let him storm the battery,' replied 
Bonaparte, and turned his back on the aide-de- 
camp who brought the message." — RHatio7i 
de la Bataille de Mont- St.- Jean. Par un 
limoin OcuLxire. Paris, 1815, 8vo, p. 51. 



Note 4. 

The fate their leader shunned to share. — 

P. 306. 

It has been reported that Bonaparte charged 
at the head of his guards, at the last period of 
this dreadful conflict. This, however, is not 
accurate. He came down indeed to a hollow 
part of the high road, leadina: to Charleroi, 
within less than a quarter of a mile of the farm 
of La Haye Sainte, one of the points most 
fiercely disputed. Here he harangued the 
guards, and informed them that his preceding 
operations iiad destroyed the British infantry 
I and cavalry, and that they had only to support 
I the fire of the artillery, which they were to at- 
I tack with the bayonet. This exhortation was 
received with shouts of Vive V Einperenr, 
which were heard over all our line, and led to 
an idea that Napoleon was charging in person. 
But the guards were led on by Ney ; nor did 
Bonaparte approach nearer the scene of action 
than the spot already mentioned, which the 
rising banks on each side rendered secure from 
all such bails as did not come in a straight line. 
He witnessed the earlier part of the battle from 
places yet more remote, particularly from an 
observatory which had been placed there by 
he King of the Netherlands, some weeks be- 
ore, for the purpose of surveying the country.* 
It is not meant to infer from these particulars 
that Napoleon showed, on that memorable 
occasion, the least deficiency in personal cour- 
age ; on the contrary, he evinced the greatest 
composure and precerice of mind during the 
whole action. But it is no less true that report 
has erred in ascribing to him any desperate 
efforts of valor for recovery of the battle ; and 
It IS remarkable, that during the whole carnage, 
none of his suite were either killed or wounded, 
whereas scarcely one of the Duke of Welling- 
ton's personal attendants escaped unhurt. 

Note 5. 

England shall tell the fight.— ^V. 306. 

In riding up to a regiment which was hard 
pressed,! the Duke called to the men, '* Sol- 
diers, we must never be beat, — what will they 
say in England? " It is needless to say how 
this appeal was answered. 

* The mistakes concerning this observatory 
have been mutual. The English supposed it 
was erected for the use of Bonaparte : and a 
French Vvrriter affirms it was constructed by the 
Duke of Wellington. 

t The 95th. The Duke's words were — 
'* Stand fast, 95th — what will they say in Eng" 
land ? " 



654 



APPENDIX. 



Note 6. 

As ^lies tfu stnith his clanging trade . — P. 307* 

A private soldier of tha 95th regiment com- 
pared the sound which took place immediately 
upon the British cavalry niinj^linc; with those 
of the enemy, to " a thonsaiid tiiikers at work 
mending pots and kettles.''^ 



Note 7. 

l^he British shock of levcir d zteel.—V. zoj. 

No persuasion or authority could prevail upon 
the French troops to stand the shock of the 
bayonet' The Imperial Guards, in particular, 
hardly stond till the British were within thirty 
yards of them, although the French author, 
already quoted, has put into their mouths the 
magnanimous sentiment, " The Guards never 
yield— they die." The same author has covered 
the plateau, or eminence, of St. Jean, which 
formed the British position, with redoubts and 
retrenchments which never had an existence. 
As the narrative, which is in many respects 
curious, was written by an eye-witness, he was 
probably deceived by the appearance of a road 
and ditch which run along part of the hill. U 
may be also mentioned, in criticizing this work, 
that the writer mentions the Chateau of Hougo- 
mont to have been carried by the French, al- 
though it was resolutely and successfully de- 
fended during the whole action. The enemy, 
indeed, possessed themselves of the wood by 
whicli it is surrounded, and at length set fire to 
the house itself; but the British (a detachment 
of the Guards, under the command of Colonel 
Macdonnell, and afterwards of Colonel Home) 
made good the garden, and thus preserved, by 
their desperate resistance, tlie post which 
covered the return of the Duke of Wellington's 
right flank. 



Note 8. 

What bright careers 'twas thine to close.— 

P. 309. 

Sir Thomas Picton, Sir William Ponsonby, 

Sir William de Lancy, and numberless gallant 

officers. 

Note g. 
Laurels from the ha^td of Death. — P. 309. 

Colonel Sir William de Lancy had married 
the beautiful Miss Hall only two months be- 
fore the Battle of Waterloo. 

Note id. 

Gallant Miller'' s failing eye . — P. 309. 

Colonel Miller of the Guards, when lying 
mortally wounded in the attack on the Bois de 
Bossa, desired to see once more the colors o, 
his regiment. They were waved about his head, 
and he died declaring that he was satisfied. 

Note w, 

A nd Cameron, in the shock of steel — P. 300. 

Colonel Cameron fell at Quatre Bras, head- 
ing a charge of the gad Highlanders. 

Note 12. 

And generous Gordon. — "P. 309. 

" Generous Gordon " — brother to the Earl o{ 
Aberdeen— wiio fell by thj side of the Duke in 
the heat of the action. 

Note 13. 

Fair Hougomont. — P. 309. 

" Hougcrnont " — a chateau with a garden 
and wood round it. A post of great import- 
ance, valiantly held by the Guaids during the, 
battle. 



GLENFINLAS. 



Note I. 

How blazed Lord Ronald'' s bclianc-trce. — 
P- 343- 

The fires lighted by the Highlanders on the 
1st of May, in compliance with the custom de- 
rived from the Pagan times, are termed The 
Beltane-tree. It is a festival celebrated with 
various superstitious rites, both in the north of 
Scotland and jn Wales. 



Note 2. 

The seer" s prophetic spirit found.— "^ ■ 34? . 

I ran only describe the second sight, by 
adopting Dr. Johnson's definition, who calls it 
" An impression, either by the mind upon the 
eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which 
things distant and future are perceived and seen 
as if they were present." To which I would 
only add, that the spectral appearances, thu» 



THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 



6S5 



presented, usually presage misfortune ; that ! 
the faculty is painful to those who suppose \ 
they possess it ; and that they usually acquire j 
it while themselves under the pressure of 
melancholy. 

Note 3. 

Will good St. Orans rule frevail.^^. 344. 

St. Oran was a friend and follower of St. 
Columba, and was buried at Icohnkill. His 
pretensions to be a saint were rather dubious. 
According to the legend, he consented to be 
buried alive, in order to propitiate certain 
demons of the soil, who obstructed the at- 
tempts of Columba to build a chapel. Colur.'.ba 
caused the body of his friend to be dug up, 
after three days had elapsed ; when O.an, to 
the horror and scandal of the assist.mts, de- 
clared that there was neither a God, a judg- 
ment, nor a future stafe! He had no tnne to 
make further discoveries, for Columba caused 
the earth once more to be shovelled over him 
with the utmost despatch. The chapel, how- 
ever, and the cemetery, was called Relig 
Ournti ; and, in memory of his rigid celibacy, 
no female was adrhitted to pay her devotions, 
or be buried in that place. This is the rule 
alluded to in the poem. 

Note 4. 
And thrice St. Fillan'' i poxverful pravtr. — 
'P- 3 45. 
St. Fillan has given his rama to many 
chapels, holy fountains, &c., in Scotland, He 
was, according to Camerarius, an Abbot of 
Pittenweem, in Fife; from which situation hi 
retired, and died a hermit in the wilds of Gien- 
urchy, a. d. 649. While engaged m transcrib- 
irgthe Scriptures, his left hand was observed 
to send forth such a splendor, as to affo-d 



light to that with which he wrote ; a miracle 
which saved many candles lo the convent, as 
St. Fillan used to siiend whole nights in that 
exercise. The 9th of January was dedicated 
to this saint, who gave his name to Kilfiilan, in 
Renfrew, aad St. Plu.ans, or Foigend, in Fife. 
Lesley, lib. 7, tells us, that Robert the Bruce 
was pobbessed of Fillaii's miraculous and lumin- 
ous arm, which he enclosed in a silver shrine, 
and had it carried at the head of iiis army. 
Previous^ to the buittle of B^.nnockburn, the 
king's chaplain, a man of little faith, abstracted 
the reiic, and deposited it in a place of security, 
lest it should fall into the hands of the English. 
But, lo 1 w'lile Robert was addressing his 
prayers to the empty casket, it was observed to 
open and shut suddenly ; and, on inspection, 
the saint was found to have Ir.mself deposited 
his arm in the shrine as an assurance of victory. 
Such is the tale of Lesley. But though Bruce 
little needed that the arm of St. Fillan should 
assist his own, he dedicated to him, in grati- 
tude, a priory at Killin, upon Loch Tay. 

In the Scots Magazine for July, 1802, there 
is a copy of a very curious crown grant, dated 
nth July, 1487, by which James HI. confirms, 
to Ma'ice Doire, an inhabitant of Strathfillan, 
in Perthshire, the peaceable exercise and en- 
joyment of a relic of St. Fillan, being appar- 
ently the head of a pastoral staff called the 
Quegrich, winch he and his predecessors are 
said to have possessed since the days of Robert 
Bruce. As the Quegrich was used to cure 
diseases, this document is probably the most 
ancient patent ever granted for a quack medi- 
cine. The ingenious correspondent, by whom 
it is furnished, farther observes, that additional 
particulars, concerning St. Fillan, -are to be 
found in Bellenden's Boece, Book 4. folio 
ccxin , and in Pendant's Tou* in Scotlana 
J772, pp. II.. 15. 



THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 



Note i. 

battle of ancram moo.'?.— p. 346. 

Lord Evers, and Sir Brian Latoun, during 
the year 1544, committed the most dreadful 
ravncc^upon the Scottish frontiers, compelling 
most nf the inhabitants, and especially tlie men 
of Liddesdale, to take assurance under the 
King of England. Upon the 17th November,, 
in that year, the sum total of their depreda- 
tions stood thus, in the bloody ledger of Lord 
Evers •,~ 



Towns, towers, barnekynes, paryshe churches, 
bastill houses, burned and destroyed, 192 

Scots slain 403 

Prisoners taken . . . . 816 

Nolt (cattle) 10,386 

Shepe . . . . 12,492 

Nags and geldings .... 1296 
Gayt ....... 200 

Bolls of corn 850 

Insight gear, &c. (furniture), an incalculable 
quantity. 

Murdin's Staii Papers, vol- i. p. 5*' 



es^ 



APPENDIX. 



1 



For these services Sir Ralph Evers was made 
» Lord of Parliament. See a strain of exult- 
ing congratulation upon his promotion poured 
torth by some contemporary minstrel, in vol. i. 
p. 417- 

The King of England had promised to these 
two bar' ns a feudal grant of the country, whigh 
•.hey lad thus reduced to a desert ; upon hear- 
iig which, Archibald Douglas, the seventh 
earl of .Angus, -.s said to have sworn to write 
\\\<i deed < f .nvestiture upon their skins, with 
sharp pens and oloody luk, in resenttnent for 
their having defaced tne tombs of his ancestors 
at Melr se — G;, dscroft. In 1545, Lord Evers 
and Latoun again entered Scotland, with an 
army consisting f jooo mercenaries, 1500 Eng- 
lish B rderers, and 700 assured Scottish men, 
chiefly Armstr ngs, TurnbuUs, and other 
broken clans In this second incursion, the 
English generals even exceeded their former 
cruelty Evers Durned the tower of Broom- 
house, with Its lady (a noble and aged woman, 
says Lesley), and ner whole family. The 
English penetrated as far as Melrose, which 
they had destroyed ..as; yea.', and which they 
now again pillaged As tney returned towards 
Jedburgh, they were f Uowed by Angus at the 
head of 1000 horse, wha was shortly after 
loined by the fam us tV-rman Leslie, with a 
body of Fife men Th- English being proba- 
bly unwilling to cross the Teviot while the 
Scots hung upon their rear, halted upon Ancram 
Moor, above the village vf that name ; and the 
Scottish general was deliberating whether to 
advance or retire, when Sir "A'a.ter Scott* of 
Buccleuch came up at full speed with a small 
but chosen body of his retainers, the rest of 
whom were near at hand. By the advice of 
this experienced warncr (to whose conduct 
Pitscottie and Buchanan ascribe the success of 
the engagement), Angus withdrew from the 
height which he occupied, and drew up his 
forces behind it, upon a piece of low flat ground 
called Panier-heugh, or Paniel-heugh. The 
spare horses being sent to an eminence in their 
rear, appeared to the English to be the main 
body of the Scots in the act of flight. Under 
this persuasion, Evers and L,atoun l uin ied pre - 

• The Editor has found no instance upon re- 
cord of this family having taken assurance with 
England. Hence, they usually suffered dread- 
fully from the English forays. In August, 
1544 (the year preceding the battle), the whole 
iinds belonging to Buccleuch, in West Teviot- 
ciale, were harried by Evers ; the outworks, cr 
barmkin, of the tower of Branxholm burned , 
eight Scots slain, thirty made prisoners, and 
ail immense prey of horses, cattle, and sheep 
carried oft. The lands upon Kale Water, be- 
longing to the same chieftain, were also plun- 
dered, and much sjioil obtained ; 30 Scots 
jiain, and the Moss Tower (a fortress near Esk- 
ioxA) sniokd '>erey sore. Thus liuccleiich had 
a long account to settle at Ancram Moor. — 
Muroin's State Piipers, pp. 45, 46. 



cipitately forward, and having ascended th« 
hill, which their foes had abandoned, were no 
less dismayed than aston.shed to find the 
phalanx of Scottish spearmen drawn up m firm 
array upon the fi.it ground below The Scots, 
in their turn became: the assailants A heroti, 
roused from the marshes by the turn alt, soared 
away betwixt the encountering armies " O ! " 
exclaimed Angus, "that I had here ry wnlt* 
goss-hawk, that we might all yoke ar odcj!" 
— GODSCROFT. The English breatn'.ess iodia- 
tigued, having the setting sun and w.nd fa.i in 
their faces, were unable to withstand :n^ lesor- 
lute and desperate charg-" of tne Scottish 
lances. No sooner had they begu.i tj wa>.-er, 
than their own al.ies, the assarcd B.iderers, 
who had been wa.t.ng the event, threw asidi 
their red crosses, and oining the..- c untry- 
men, made a mos: merciless slaagnte/ among 
the English fcg-tnes, th pursuers calling upoi) 
each other to " re.-..enibe' Bro.mhrus-: " — • 
Lesley, p. 478. 

In the battle fe.l Lord Evers, and his son, 
together witt: Sir Brian Lat un, and 800 Eng- 
lishmen, many cf whf m were persons of rank. 
A thousand prisoners were taken. Among 
these was a patriotic alderman of London, Read 
by name, wIic, having contumaciously refused 
to pay his portion of a benevolence, demanded 
from the city by Henry VIII , was sent by 
royal authority to serve against the Scots. 
These, at settling his ransom, he found still 
more exorb tair. in their exactions than the 
monarch. — Redpath's Border History, p.563. 

Evers was rr.uch regretted by King Henry, 
who swore to aveng; his death upon Angus, 
against whom he C( nceived iiimself to have par- 
ticular grounds of resentment, on account of 
favors received by thi.- earl at his hands. The 
answer of Angus was worthy of a Douglas • "Is 
our brother-in-law ct^ended," \ said he " that 
I, as a good Scnsman, have avenged my 
ravaged country, and the defaced trmbs cf my • 
ancestors, upon Raiph Evers? They were 
better men than he, and i was bound to do no 
less. And will he take my life for that } Little 
knows King Henry the skirts of Kirnetable J 
I can keep myself there against all his English 
host." — GODSCRC FT. 

Such was the noted battle of Ancram Moor, 
The spot en wl.ich it was fought, is called 
Lilyard's Edge, from an Amazonian Scottish 
wo.Tian cf that name, who is reported, by tra- 
dition, to have distinguished herself in the 
same manner as Squire Witherington § The 
oil people point out her monument, now broken 
^nd defaced. The inscription is said to liave 
been legible within this century, and to have 
run thus. 



i Angus had married the widow of James 
IV., sister to King Henry VII 1. 

% Kirnetable, now oilled Cairntable, is a 
mountainous tract at the head of Douglasdale 

§ See Chevy Chase. 



CADYOW CASTLE. 



Hi 



" Fair maiden Lylliard lies under this stane, 
Little was lier stature, but great was her fame; 
Upon the English louns she laid many thumps, 
And, when her legs were cutted off, she 
fought upon her stumps." 

Vide Accojint of the Parish of Melrose. 

It appears, from a passage in Stowe, that an 
ancestor of Lord Evers held also a grant of 
Scottisli lands from an English monarch. " I 
have seen," says the historian, " uuddr the 
broad-seale of the said King Edward I., a 
manor called Ketnes, in the county of Forfare, 
in Scotland, and neere the furthest part of the 
same nation northward, given to John Ure and 
fiis lieires, ancestor to the Lord Ure that now is, 
for his service done in these partes, with market, 
&c., dated at Lanercost, the 2otii day of Oc- 
tober, anno regis 34." — Stowe's A finals, p. 
210. This grant, like that of Henry, must have 
been dangerous to the receiver. 



Note 2. 
A covering on her wrist. 



349- 



There is an oid and well-known Irish tradi- 
tion that the bodies of certain spirits and devils 
are scorchingly hot, so that they leave upon 
anything they touch an impress as if of red-hot 
iron It is related of one of Melancthon's re- 
lations, that a devil seized hold of her hand, 
which bore the mark of a burn to her dying 
day- The incident .n the poem is of a similar 
nature— the ghost's hands " scorch'd like a fiery 
brand," leaving a burning impress on the table 
and the lady's wrist. Another class of fiends 
are reported to be icy cold, and to freeze the 
skin of any one w>th whom they come in con- 
tact- 



NoTB 3. 
That 7iun ivho rSer beholds the day. — P. 349. 

The citcumstarce of the nun, "who never 
saw the day>" is not entireiy imaginary. About 
fifty years ago, an unfortunate female wanderer 
took up her residence in a dark vault, among 
the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which, during 
the day, she never quitted. When night fell, 
she issued from this miserable habitation, and 
went to the house of Mr. Haiiburton of New- 
mains, the Editor's great-grandfather, or to 
that of Mr. Erskine of Slieilfield, two gentle- 
men of the neighborhctd. From their charity 
she obtained such necessaries as she could be 
prevailed upon to accept. At twelve, each 
night, she lighted her car.d'.e, and returned to 
her vault, assuring her fnendly neighbors, 
that, during her absence, her habitation was 
arranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the 
uncouth name of Fat itps : describing him as a 
little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with 
which he tramp.ed tn- day floor of the vault, 
to dispel the damps. This circumstance caused 
her to be regarded, by the well-informed, with 
compassion, as deranged in her understanding ; 
and, by the vu.gar, with some degree of terror. 
The cause of her adopting this extraordinary 
mode of life slie w. uld never explain. Jt was, 
however, beiieved to have been occasioned by 
a vow, that, during the absence of a man to 
whom she was attached, she would never look 
upon the sun. Her lover never returned. He 
fell during the civil war of 1745-6, and she never 
more would behold the light of day. 

The vault, or rather dungeon, in which this 
unfortunate woman lived and died, passes still 
by the name of the supernatural being, with 
which Its giocm was tenanted by lier disturbed 
imagination, and few of the neighboring peas- 
ants dared enter it by night 



CADYOW CASTLE. 



Note i. 

."— sound the pryse I — P. 351. 

'"V7**.-The note blown at the death of the 
^RTo.^ in Caledonia olim frequens erat syl- 
vestris quidam bos, nunc vero rarior, qui, 
colore candidisiimo, jubam densam et deniis- 
sani, instar leonis gestat, truculentus ac/erus 
ab humnno genere abhorrens, ui qucrcunqiie 
komiftes vel manibus iontrectarint, vel halitn 
perjiaverittt, ab iis nndtos post dies amino 
abstinueriint. A d hoc tanta audacia hiuc bovi 
indita erat, 7it non solum trritaius eqnites 
furenter prosterneret, sed ne tantillutn laces- \ 



situs omnes promiscue homines corrJbits ac 
U7igj(lis peter it ; ac canutn, qui apud nosferc 
cissimi sunt, impetus plane contemneret. Ejus 
carnes cartilaginosce, sed saporis suavissitni. 
Erat is lint per illam vastissimain Caledonia 
sylvani frequens, sed humana ingluvie jam 
assumptus tribus tantum locis est reliquus, 
Strivilingii, CumbemaldicB, et Kincarnice.-^ 
Lesl^us, Scoti« Descriptio, p. 13. 

Note 2. 
Stern Claud replied. 
Lord Claud Hamilton, second son of the 
Duke of Chatelherault, and comraendator of 



658 



APPENDIX, 



the Abbey of Paisley, acted a distinguished part 
during llie iroubiei of Queen Mary's reign, and ] 
remained unalterably attached to the cause of i 
that unfortunate princess. He led the van of ! 
her army at the fatal battle of Langside, and 
was one of the commanders at the Raid of Stir- 
line;, which had so nearly given complete suc- 
cess to the Queen's faction. He was ancestor 
of the present Marquis of Abercorn. 

Note 3. 

Woodhouseh'. — P. 351. 

This barony, stretching along the banks of 
the Esk, near Auchendmny, belonged to Qoth- 
wellhaugh, in right cf his wife. The ruins of 
the mansion, from whence siie was exjielled 
ui the brutal manner which occasioned her 
death, are still to be seen in a hollow glen 
beside the river. Popular report tenants them 
with the restless ghost of the Lady Bothwell- 
haugh ; whom, hi wever, it confounds with Lady 
Anne Bothwell, whvse Lamettt is so popular. 
This spectre is so tenacious of her rights, that, a 
part of the stones i f th- ancient edifice having 
been employed in building or repairing the pre- 
sent Woodhouselee, sh;.- has deemed it a part of 
her privilege to haunt that hous2 also ; and, even 
of very late years, has excited considerable dis- 
turbance and terror among the domestics. This 
is a more remarkable vindication of the rights 
0/ ghosts as the present Woodhouslee, which 
gives his title to the Honorable Alexander 
Fraser Tytler, a senator of the College of 
Justice, is situated en the slope of the Pent- 
fand hills, distant at least four miles from her 
proper abode She always appears in white, 
and with het child in her arms. 

Note 4, 
Drives t.^ the leap kis jaded steed. — P. 351. 
Birrel informs us^ that Bothwellhaugh, being 
closely pursued, "after that spur and wand had 
failed iiim, he drew forth his dagger, and strocke 
his horse behind, whilk caused the horse to leap 
a very brode stanke [i. e. ditch], by whilk means 
he escapit, and gat away from all the rest of the 
horses "— Bfrrhl's Diary, p. 18. 

Note 5. 

From the -u,iid Border s humbled side. — P.351. 

Murray's death took place shortly after an 
expedition to the Borders ; which is thus com- 
memorated by the author of his Elegy : 
" So having stablischt all things in this sort, 
To Liddisdaill again he did resort, 
Throw Ewisdaii, Eskdail, and all the daills 

rode he, 
And also lay three nights in Cannabie, 
Whair na prince lay thir hundred yeiris 

before, 
Nae thief duret stir, they did him feir sa sair; 



And, that they suid na mair thair thift allege, 
Threescore and twelf he brocht oi thanie iu 

pledge, 
Syne wardit thame, whilk maid the rest keep 

ordour , 
Then mycht the rasch-bus keep ky on the 

Border." 

Scottish Poems, 16th century, p. 232. 

Note 6. 
With hackbut bent. — "P. 352. 
Hackbuck bent — Gun cock'd. The carbine, 
with which the Regent vi-as shot, is preserved 
at Hamilton Palace. It is a brass piece, of a 
middling length, very small in the bore, and, 
what IS rather extraordinary, appears to have 
been riHed or indented :n the barrel. It had a 
matchlock, for which a modern fitelock has been 
injudiciously substituted. 

NOTB-. 

The wild Mac/arlane'i plaided c'un - P. 35^. 
This clan of Lennox Highlanders were at- 
tached to the Regenc Murray. Holinshed, 
speaking of the battle of Langside, says, '"In 
this balyle the val.ar.cie cf an Heiland gentle- 
man, named Macfarlare, stucd tne Regent's 
part in great steede ; for, in the tn ttest brunte 
of the fighte, he came up with two hundred 
of hisfriendes and countrymen, ar.d so manfully 
gave in upon the fiankes of the Queen's people, 
that he was a great cause of the disordering oi 
them. This Macfarlane had been lately before, 
as I have heard, condemned to die, for somii 
outrage by him committed, and obtayning paT« 
don through suyte of the Countess of Murray, 
he recompensed that clemencie by ihis piece of 
service now at tins batayle." Calderwood's 
account is less favorable to the Macfarlanes. 
He states that '' ALicfarlane, with his High- 
landmen, fled from the wing wherfc they were 
set. The Lord Lindsay, who stood nearest to- 
them in the Regent's battle, said, * Let them go ! 
I shall fill their place better ; ' and so, stepping 
forward, with a company of fresh men, charged 
the enemy, whose spears were now spent, with 
long weapons, so that they were driven back 
by force, being before almost overthrown by 
the avaunt-guard and harquebusiers, and so 
were turned to flight.'' — Calderwood's MS. 
aptid Keith, p. So. Melville mentions the 
flight of the vanguard, but states it to have 
been commanded by Morton, and composed 
chiefly of commoners of the barony of Renfrew. 

Note 8. 
Glencairn and stout Parkheadwere nigh. — 

P. 352. 
The Earl of Glencairn was a steady adherent 
of the Regent. George Douglas of Parkhead 
was a natural brother of the Earl of Morton, 
whose horse was killed by the same ball by 
which Murray fell. 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 



659 



Note 9. 

— — haggard Lmdesay\ iron eye. 

That saw/air Mary zveep in vain. — P. 352. 

Lord Lindesay of the Byres was the most 
ferocious and brutal of the Regent's faction, 
and, as such, was employed to extort Mary's 
signature to the deed of resignation presented 
to lier in Lochleven castle. He discharged his 
commission with the most savage rigor ; and 
it is even said, that when the weeping captive, 
in the act of signing, averted her eyes from the 
fatal deed, he pinched her arm with the grasp 
of Jtis uon glove. 



NoTB 10. 

So close the ininiofis crowded nigh.— P. 352. 

Not only had the Regent notice of the in' 
tended attempt upon his life, but even of the 
very house from which it was threatened. With 
that infatuation at which men wonder, after 
such events have happened, he deemed it would 
be a sufficing precaution to ride briskly past 
the dangerous spot. But even this was pre- 
vented by the crowd ; so that Bothwellhaugh 
had time to take deliberate aim. — SPOTTIS' 
wooDE, p. 233. Buchanan. 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 



Note i. 
By blast of bugle free.— V . 354. 

The barony of Pennycuik, the property of 
Sir George Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular 
tenure ; the proprietor being bound to sit upon 
a large rocky fragment called the Buckstane, 
and wind three blasts of a horn, when the King 
shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near 
Edinburgh. Hence the family have adopted as 
tlieir crest a demi-forester proper, winding a 
horn, with the motto. Free for a Blast. The 
beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much 
admired, both on account of the architecture and 
surrounding scenery. 

Note 2. 

To Auchendinny^s hazel shade. — P. 354. 

Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske below 
Pennycuik, the present residence of the in- 
genious H. Mackenzie, Esq., author of the 
Man of Feeling, dr=f. Edition 1803. 

Note 3. 
Melville's beechy grove. — P. 354. 

, Melville Castle, the seat of the Right Honor- 
able Lord Mc-lville, to whom it gives the title 
of Viscount, is delightfully situated upon the 
£ske> near Lasswade. 



Note. 4. 
Roslins rocky glen.~V. 354. 
The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial res- 
idence of the ancient family of St. Clair. The 
Gothic chapel, which is still in beautiful preser- 
vation, with the romantic and woody dell in 
which they are situated, belong to the Right 
Honorable the Earl of Rosslyn, the represen- 
tative of the former Lords of Roslin. 

Note 5. 
Dalkeith, which all the Virtues love. — P. 354. 

The village and Castle of Dalkeith belonged 
of old to the famous Earl of Morton, but is now 
the residence of the noble family of Buccleuch. 
The park extends along the Eske, which is 
there joined by its sister stream of the same 
name. 

Note 6. 
Classic Hawthornden. — P. 354. 

Hawthornden, the residence of the poet 
Drummond. A house of more modern date is 
enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient 
castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice 
upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by 
winding caves, which in former times were a 
refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. 
Here Drummond received Be.i Jouson, who 
journeyed from London on foot in order to visii 
him. 



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The incidents of the story, as related in the 
boolv, are thoroughly bright and conciso, and 
the fortunes, of the hero are followed by the 
reader, step by step, with an eagerness not 
easily concealed. 



I'UBLISEISO liY 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

li <e IC, resey Street, New TorJc. 



8iG4 



Latest Issues of Lovell's Library, 



Sketches by Boz 20 

A Christmas Oarol, etc. . 15 

lone Stewart 20 

Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 

Dora Thorne 20 

Maid of Athens 20 

Conquest of Spain 10 

Fitzboodle Papers, etc... 10 

Bracebridge HaU 20 

Uncommercial Traveller. 20 

Roundabout Papers 20 

Rossmoyne 20 

A Legend of the Rhine. . 10 

Cox's Dairy, etc 10 

Beyond Pardon 20 

Somebody's Luggage, etc 10 

Godolphin 20 

Salmagundi 20 

Famous Funny Fellows. . 20 

Irish Sketches, etc 20 

The Battle of Life, etc... 10 
Pilgrims of the Rhine... 15 

Randoin Shots 20 

Men's Wives 10 

Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

Reprinted Pieces 20 

Astoria 20 

^Tovels by Emment Hands 10 
Oompanione of Columbus ^0 

No Thoroughfare 10 

Character sketches, etc. . 10 

Christmas Books 20 

A Tour on the Prairies. . 10 

Ballads 15 

Yellowplush Papers 10 

Life of Mahomet, Part 1. 15 
Life of Mahomet, Pt. II. 15 
Sketches and Travels in 

London 10 

Ohver Groldsmith, Irving 20 

Captain Bonneville 20 

Golden Girls 20 

English Hi imorists 15 

Moorish Chronicles 10 

Winifred Power 20 

Great Hoggarty Diamor.d 10 

Pausanias 15 

The New Abelard 20 

AReal Queen 20 

The Rose and the Ring. . 20 
Wolferts Roost ; and Ims- 

cellanies, by Irving 10 

Mark Seaworth 20 

Life of Paul Jones 20 

Round the World 20 

Elbow Room 20 

The Wizard's Son 25 

Harry Lorrequer 20 

How it All Came Round. 20 
Dante Rosetti's Poems. . . 20 

The Canon's Ward 20 

Lucile, by O. Meredith. , 20 
Every Day Cook Book... 20 
Lays of Ancient Rome.. 20 

Life of Burns 20 

The Young Foresters.... 20 
John Bull and His Island 20 
Salt Water, by Kingston. 20 

The Midshipman 20 

Proctor's Po 'ms 20 

Clayton Rangers 20 

Schillers Poems 20 

Goethe's Faust 20 

Goethe's Poems 20 

Life oC Thackeray 10 

Dante's Vision of Hell, 

Purgatory and Paradise 20 

An Interesting Case 20 

Life of Byron, Nichol. . . . 10 

LifeofBunyan 10 

"Valerie's Fate 10 

Grandfather Lickshinele 20 
Lays of the Scottish Car 

valiers 20 



WiUis' Poems 20 

Tales of the French Re- 
volution .,... 15 

Loom and Luerger 20 

More Leaves from a Lif y 

m the Highlands 15 

Hygiene of the Bram 25 

BerTceley the Banker 20 

Homes Abroad 15 

Scott's Lady of the Lake, 

with notes 20 

Modern Christianity a 
Civilized Heathenism. . 15 

Life of Shelley 10 

Goldsmith's Plays; and 

Poems 20 

For Each and for All 15 

Life of Scott 10 

The Pathfinder 20 

The Sergeant's Legacy. . 20 

An Old Man's Love 15 

Old Lady Mary 10 

Life of Hume 10 

Tuice-Told Tales 20 

The Story of Chinese 
Gordon, A. E. Hake... 20 

Hill and Valley 15 

Essays, by Emerson 20 

Essays, by George Ehot. . 20 

Science at Home 20 

Grandfatlier's Chair 20 

Life of Defoe 10 

H omeward Bound 20 

The Charmed Sea 15 

Life of Locke 10 

A Fair Device 20 

Thaddeusof Warsaw.,.. 20 

Life of Gibbon 10 

Dorothy Forster 20 

Swiss Family Robinson. . 26 
Childhood of the World. . 10 

Princess Napraxine 25 

Life m the \Vilds 15 

Paradise Lost 20 

The Land Question 10 

Homer's Odyssey 20 

Life of Milton 10 

Social Problems 20 

The Giant's Robe 20 

Sowers not Reapers 15 

Homer's Iliad 30 

Arabian Nights' Enter- 
tainments 25 

Life of Pope 10 

John Holdsworth 20 

Glen of the Echoes 15 

Life of Johnson IC 

How he Reached the 

White House 25 

Poems, by E. A. Poe 26 

Life of Southey 10 

Life of J. G. Blaine 20 

Pole on Whist 15 

Life of Burke 10 

The Briertield Tragedy.. 20 
Adrift with a Vengeance 25 

Life of Wordsworth 10 

Children ot the Abbey. . . 30 
Poems, by Swinburne.... 20 

Life of Chaucer 10 

Over the Summer Sea. . . 20 

A Perilous Secret 20 

LallaRookh, by Moore., 20 

Don Quixote SO 

" I Say No," by Collins. . 20 
Andersen's Fairy Tales. . 20 
A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

Aurora Leigh 20 

Cavendish Card Essays. , 15 

Repented at Leisure 20 

Lne of Cowper, Smith. . . 10 

Self -Help, by Smiles 25 

Narrative of A- Gordon 
Pjm IS 



427 Life of Grover Cleveland 20 

428 Robinson Crusoe 25 

429 Called Back, by Conway. 15 

430 Bums' Poems 20 

4ol Life of Spenser 10 

432 The Gold Bug, by Poo.. . 15 

433 Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 

434 Typhaines Abbey 25 

435 Miss Tommy, by Mulock. 15 

436 The Light of Asia 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle Ap- 

prentices 15 

438 The Assignation & Other 

Tales, by E. A. Poe.... 15 

439 Noctes Ainbrosianaj 30 

440 History of the Mormons. 15 

441 Home as Found 20 

4-12 Taine's English Litera- 
ture 40 

445 Bryant's Poems 20 

444 An Ishmaelite 20 

445 The Rival Doctors, by 

Lapointe 20 

446 Tennyson's Poems 40 

447 The Murder in the Rue 

Morgue and Other Tales 15 

448 Life of Fredrika Bremer. 20 

449 Quisisana 20 

450 Whittier's Poems 20 

451 Dorib, by The Duchess,. 20 

452 Mystic London 20 

453 Black Poodle and Other 

4 Tales, by F. Anstey .... 20 

454 The Golden Dog 40 

455 Pearls of the Faith 15 

450 Judith Shakespeare 20 

457 Pope's Poems 30 

458 Sunshine and Roses 20 

459 John Bull and His Daugh- 

ters, by Max oRell .... 20 

460 Galaski, by Bayne 20 

461 Socialism 10 

462 Dark Days 15 

463 Deerslayer, by Cooper... 30 

464 Two years before the 

Mast, by R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

465 EaiTs Atonement 20 

46S Underthe Will, byHay., 10 

467 Prairie, by Cooper 20 

468 The Count of Talavera. . 2 ' 
460 Chase, by Lermina 20 

470 Vic, by A. Beurimo 15 

471 Pioneer, by Cooper 2.") 

4T2 Indian Song of Songs. ... 10 

473 Christmas Stories 20 

474 A Woman's Temptation. 20 

475 Sheep in Wolfs Clothing. 20 

476 Love Works Wonders 20 

477 A Week in Killarney 10 

478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

479 Mrs. Browning's Poems. 35 
430 Ahce's Adventures 20 

481 Through the Looking- 

Glass, by Lewis Carroll 20 

482 Longfellow's Poems 20 

4S3 The Child Hunters 15 

484 The Two Admirals 2f> 

485 My Roses, by French ... 20 

486 History of the French 

Revolution. Vol. I.., , 25 
486 History of the irencA 

Revolution. Vol. II... 25 
4S7 Moore's Poems 40 

483 Water Witch 20 

4S9 Bride of Lammermoor... 20 

400 B'ack Dwarf 10 

491EedRover 20 

492 Castle Dangerous 15 

493 Legend of Montrose 15 

494 Past and Present 20 

495 Surgeon's Daughter 10 

d96 Woman's Trials 29 

497 Sesame and Lilies 10 

49S Dryden's Poems. SO 



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